RY 

VOF 

IIA 

GO 


, 


Through  the  Year  with  the  Poets 

EDITED    BY 

OSCAR    FAY    ADAMS. 


Now  Ready. 


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BOSTON. 


MAY 


EDITED  BY 

OSCAR  FAY  ADAMS 


THOU  pulse  of  joy,  whose  throb  beats  time 

For  daisied  field,  for  blossoming  spray ! 
To  dance  of  leaf  and  song  bird's  chime 
Set  all  the  prose  of  life  to  rhyme. 
Ring  in  the  May ! 

MARY  ELIZABETH  BLAKE. 


BOSTON 
D.   LOTHROP    AND    COMPANY 

FRANKLIN  AND  HAWLEY  STREETS 


COPYRIGHT,  1886,  BY 
D.  LOTHROP  AND  COMPANY. 


BOSTON: 

COMPOSITION  AND  ELECTROTYPING  BY 
C.  F.  MATTUON  AND  COMPANY. 


CONTENTS.  Vli 

PAGE 

SWEET  LAGGARD,  COME  .    .  William  Wilsey  Martin  .  47 

WHEN  MAY  FOLLOWS      .    .  Robert  Browning   ...  48 

MAY William  D.  Gallagher     .  48 

MAY  IN  THE  SWAN  WOODS,  Thomas  Gold  Appleton   .  49 

To  THE  DANDELION     .    .     .  James  Russell  Lowell     .  51 

SPRING Henry  Howard ....  53 

WHY  SHOULD  MAY  REMEM- 
BER       Algernon  C.  Swinburne  .  54 

MAY Paul  Hamilton  Hayne    .  54 

MAY  MORNING Mrs.  Celia  Thaxter    .    .  55 

MAY James  Ritssell  Lowell     .  56 

HEAT Ralph  Waldo  Emerson   .  57 

MAY Mrs.  Helen  F.  Jackson    .  58 

FANTASIE  DE  PRINTEMPS    .  Edgar  Fawcett  ....  58 

DARK  SPRING Roden  Noel 59 

FLED  ARE  THE  FROSTS    .    .  Robert  Herrick  ....  60 

*MAY Mrs.  Jane  G.  Austin  .     .  61 

MAY  IN  KINGSTON  ....    Henry  Abbey 62 

APPLE  BLOSSOMS      ....  Horatio  Nelson  Powers  .  63 

IN  MAY Alfred  Perceval  Graves  .  64 

IN  BLOSSOM  TIME  ....  Ina  Donna  Coolbrith  .    .  65 

ON  A  COUNTRY  ROAD     .    .  Algernon  C.  Swinburne  .  66 

MAY Edmund  Spenser    ...  67 

MAY  GROWN  A-COLD  .    .    .  William  Morris     ...  68 

MAY  GLADNESS Alexander  Smith    ...  68 

IN  MAY David  Gray 69 

MAY Edwin  Arnold  ....  69 

APPLE  BLOSSOMS      ....  William  Wilsey  Martin .  70 

IN  MAY Mrs.  Celia  Thaxter    .     .  72 

*  Written  for  this  volume. 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

PACK 

As  IT  FELL  UPON  A  DAY    .  Robert  Bamfield    ...  73 

A  LATE  SPRING  .....  Carlos  Wilcox   ....  74 

THE  RHODORA Ralph  Waldo  Emerson   .  76 

APPLE  BLOSSOMS      ....  Lucy  Larcom 77 

A  SNOWFLAKE  IN  MAY  .    .  Clinton  Scollard     ...  78 

APPLE  BLOSSOMS Mrs.  Louisa  Hopkins .     .  78 

IN  MAY Robert  Kelley  Weeks  .    .  79 

*MAY Willis  Boy  d  Allen  .    .    .  79 

SONG  TO  MAY Edward Hovell-Thurlow,  80 

A  QUIET  EVE  IN  SPRING    .  J.  McReath 81 

MAY William  Morris      ...  82 

PICTURES  OF  SPRING  .    .    .  Mrs.  C.  A.  Mason  ...  83 

SPRING  IN  TUSCANY    .     .     .  Algernon  C.  Swinburne  .  84 

MAY  MORN  SONG    ....  William  Mother-well  .    .  86 

IN  SPRING Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  .     .  88 

SONG  OF  THE  SPRING  .    .    .  James  B.  Kenyan  ...  89 

MAY George  W.  Thornbury     .  90 

'TWAS  PRIME  OF  MAY     .    .  Alexander  Smith    ...  90 

WINDERMERE  IN  MiD-MAY .  Alfred  Perceval  Craves  .  91 
WHEN   NATURE  TRIES  HER 

FINEST  TOUCH    ....  John  Keble 91 

VITA  VITALIS  ....;.  Robert  Kelley  Weeks  .     .  92 

SYLVAN  MUSINGS     ....  Paul  Hamilton  Hayne    .  95 

IN  A  MAY  DAY  HUSH     .    .  Jean  Ingelow     ....  95 

AN  ORCHARD  FANCY  .    .    .  Richard  K.  Munkittrick .  96 

DANDELIONS John  Albee 96 

To  MAY Leigh  Hunt 97 

IN  MIDDLE  MAY      ....  Alfred  Tennyson    ...  98 

APPLE  BLOSSOMS      ....  Frank  D.  Sherman     .    .  99 

*  Written  for  this  volume. 


CONTENTS.  IX 

PAGE 

MAY James  Gates  Percival.     .  99 

A  MAY  SONG Mrs.  Mary  M.  Singleton,  100 

A  SONG  OF  MAY      ....  Mrs.  Mary  M.  Dodge     .  101 

THE  WOODS  IN  MAY  .    .    .  Walter  Scott 102 

SPRING  SONG Robert  Kelley  Weeks  .    .  103 

MAY Sarah  C.  Woolsey  .    .    .  103 

A  SPRINGTIME William  Dean  Howells  .  105 

BESIDE  THE  SEA Clinton  Scollard     .     ,    .  106 

IN  THE  PRIME  OF  SPRING  .  Mrs.  Marian  Evans  Cross,  107 

COMO  IN  MAY Mrs.  M.  Van  Rensselaer,  108 

A  SONG  OF  SPRING      .     .     .  Mrs.  Emily  Davis  Pfeijfer,  109 

IN  MAY Alfred  Tennyson    .     .     .  no 

MAY Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  .  1 1 1 

MAYTIDE James  Russell  Lowell     .  1 1 1 

IN  MAY Edmund  Spenser    ...  112 

THE  CANADIAN  SPRING  .     .  Alfred  Billings  Street     .  113 
THE  FLOWER  OF  LOVE  LIES 

BLEEDING Richard Henry  Stoddard,  114 

ON  THE  DOWNS JohnAddingtoiiSymonds,  116 

THE  FIELDS  IN  MAY  .    .    .  William  Allingham    .    .  117 

IN  MAYTIME Anne  Whitney   ....  117 

THE  FIRST  ROSE      ....  Alfred  Perceval  Graves  .  118 

BALLADE  OF  THE  MAYTIME,  Clinton  Scollard     .    .    .  118 

THE  WOODWELE  IN  MAY    .  William  Canton     .    .    .  119 

To  THE  MONTH  OF  MAY      .  Sir  John  Davies    .    .    .  122 

THE  MAYTIME  RAPTURE      .  Edgar  Fawcett  ....  122 

THE  MAY  OF  THE  YEAR.     .  Alfred  Perceval  Graves  .  123 

MOONRISE  IN  MAY  ....  Mrs.  Sarah  Whitman     .  124 

PROPHETIC  BIRDS    ....  Arthur  O'Shaughnessy  .  127 

THE  BIRDS  IN  MAY     .    .    .  William  Morris     .    .    .  128 


X  CONTENTS. 

PACK 

WAITING  FOR  JUNE     .    .    .  Elisha  N.  Gunnison  .    .  129 

ON  THE  SPRING Thomas  Gray     ....  130 

MAYTIME Mrs.  Harriet  Spofford    .  132 

A  SPRING  SONG William  Cox  Bennett.    .  133 

LATE  SPRING  EVENING   .    .  Robert  Bridges  ....  134 

AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  SPRING  .  Mrs.  Charlotte  Smith      .  135 

FAREWELL  TO  SPRING     .    .  Alfred  Austin    ....  136 

AT  WHITSUNTIDE    ....  Helen  Gray  Cone   .    .    .  138 

A  SPRING  PICTURE.    .    .    .  Lewis  Morris    ....  138 

IN  MAY Dora  Read  Goodale     .     .  139 

A  SPRING  LOVE  SONG     .    .  Mrs.  Akers  Allen  ...  139 

MAY  AND  DEATH     ....  Robert  Browning    ...  140 

IN  MAY Charlotte  Fiske  Bates .     .  141 

RONDEAU Melville  M.  Bigelow  .    .  142 

IN  WANING  MAY     ....  Thomas  Woolner  ...  143 


PREFACE. 


SIXCE  Chaucer's  time  the  month  of  May  has  never 
lacked  its  laureates  to  sing  its  praises  in  melodious 
verse.  But  the  May  poetry  of  an  earlier  day,  like  the 
most  of  Nature-inspired  verse,  was  more  general  and 
didactic  in  its  character  than  at  present.  The  Vic- 
torian poets  have  something  in  view  beyond  the 
glorification  of  the  month.  They  do  not  rest  content 
with  telling  us  that  in  May  the  grass  is  green  and 
that  the  flowers  are  fresh  and  gay,  but  they  let  the 
very  breath  of  blossom  time  blow  through  their  lines. 
So,  in  this  volume,  the  praise  of  May  is  not  the  only 
theme,  since  there  is  also  here  the  odorous  fragrance 
of  apple  blooms,  the  echo  of  bird  songs,  the  May- 
time  joy  as  well  as  the  Maytime  sadness.  All  these 
have  their  place  in  any  attempt  to  adequately  present 
the  spirit  of  the  month,  for  all  these  have  found 
frequent  utterance  in  English  verse. 

The  lines  upon  the  title-page  were  written  for  that 
place  by  Mrs.  Mary  E.  Blake ;  the  poems  by  Mr. 
Willis  Boyd  Allen,  Mrs.  Jane  Goodwin  Austin,  Mrs. 
Meteyard,  and  Mr.  William  Hamilton  Hayne  have  also 


iv  PREFACE. 

been  generously  given   to   the   editor   as   original   con- 
tributions. 

The  publishers  gratefully  acknowledge  their  obliga- 
tions to  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. ;  Cupples,  Up- 
ham  &  Co. ;  Roberts  Brothers ;  Ticknor  &  Co. ;  Lee  & 
Shepard ;  Chas.  Scribner's  Sons ;  and  the  Century 
Company,  as  well  as  to  Miss  Emily  C.  Weeks  and 
Mr.  Parke  Godwin  for  the  use  of  certain  poe'ms  of 
which  they  control  the  copyright. 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.,  April  18,  1886. 


CONTENTS. 


FAGB 

IN  JOYOUS  SPRING  ....  Alfred  Tennyson  ....  I 
Is  NOT  THE  MAYTIME  NOW 

ON  EARTH William  Morris  ...  2 

MAY  HAS  COME  IN  ...  Thomas  Buchanan  Read,  2 

CUCKOO !  CUCKOO  ....  John  Stuart  Blackie  .  .  3 

BELTANE Alfred  Perceval  Graves  .  4 

FIRST  NIGHT  OF  MAY  .  .  David  Gray 5 

CORINNA'S  GOING  A-MAY- 

ING Robert  Herrick  ....  5 

*MAY  DAY Airs.  M.  G.  Meteyard  .  8 

MAY  DAY  SONG William  Cox  Bennett .  .  8 

THE  ENTERING  MAY  .  .  .  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  .  10 
WHEN  BEECHES  BRIGHTEN 

EARLY  MAY John  Vance  Cheney  .  .  n 

ONE  SWALLOW Mrs.  Mary  E.  Blake  .  .  12 

SONG  ON  MAY  MORNING  .  John  Milton 13 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  GRASS  .  Mrs.  Sarah  Roberts  Boyle,  14 

THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  MAY  .  George  Darley  ....  15 

THE  ARBUTUS John  Albee 16 

MAY Henry  Gay  Hewlett  .  .  17 

ON  THE  THAMES  ....  JohnAddingtonSymonds,  18 

A  MAY  MEMORY Edward  Capern  ...  18 

*  Written  for  this  volume. 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PACK 

MAYFLOWERS Mrs.  Chandler  Moulton  .  19 

SEEKING  THE  MAYFLOWER  .  Edmund  C.  Stedman  .    .  20 

IN  MAY Thomas  William  Parsons,  22 

SPRING  SONG Aubrey  De  Vere     ...  23 

MAY Mrs.  C.  A.  Mason  ...  24 

EXPECTATION Emma  Lazarus ....  24 

THE  GREEN  THINGS  GROW- 
ING        Mrs.  Mulock  Craik     .    .  25 

SPRING Alfred  Tennyson    ...  26 

ON  MAY James  Thomson      ...  27 

THE  DAISY Geoffrey  Chaucer    ...  28 

PHILLIDA  AND  CORYDON     .  Nicholas  Breton     ...  29 
THE  RETURN  OF  THE  NIGHT- 
INGALE      Mrs.  Charlotte  Smith      .  30 

A  MORN  OF  MAY     ....  Jean  Ingelow      ....  30 

MAY Mrs.  Mary  E.  Blake  .    .  32 

MAY  MEMORIES John  Payne 33 

A  MAY  SONG Genevieve  Mary  Irons     .  35 

MAY  EVENING William  Cullen  Bryant  .  37 

RE-AWAKENING Frank  D.  Sherman    .    .  38 

MAY Henry  W.  Longfellow     .  38 

MOONLIGHT  IN  MAY    .    .    .  Robert  Kelley  Weeks  .    .  39 

MAY  TIME Bayard  Taylor  ....  39 

SONG  OF  THE  PRINCESS  MAY,  Nora  Perry 41 

IN  THE  SPRING Mrs.  Emily  Davis  Pfeiffert  42 

MAY Annie  Leuthal  Smith .     .  44 

LOOK  HOW  IN  MAY     .    .     .  William  Drummond .     .  44 

•MAY William  H.  Hay  tie     .     .  45 

SPRING Thomas  Nash    ....  46 

*  Written  for  this  volume. 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


PAGE 
ABBEY,  HENRY. 

Born  in  Rondout,  New  York,  July  n,  1842. 

May  in  Kingston 62 

ALBEE,  JOHN. 

Born  in  Bellingham,  Massachusetts,  April  3,  1833. 

The  Arbutus 16 

Dandelions        ........       96 

ALDRICH,  THOMAS  BAILEY. 

Born  in  Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire,  November  n,  1837. 

May Ill 

ALLEN,  MRS.  ELIZABETH  ANN  [CHASE]  [AKERS]. 

Born  in  Strong,  Maine,  October  9,  1832. 

A  Spring  Love  Song 139 

ALLEN,  WILLIS  BOYD. 

Boru  in  Kittery  Point,  Maine,  July  9,  1855. 

May 79 

ALLINGHAM,  WILLIAM. 

Born  in  Ballyshannon,  Ireland,  circa  1828. 

The  Fields  in  May 117 


xii  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS, 

PAGE 

APPLETON,  THOMAS  GOLD. 

Born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  March  31,  1812. 
Died  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  April  18,  1884. 

May  in  the  Swan  Woods         .....      49 
ARNOLD,  EDWIN. 

Born  in  Rochester,  England,  June  to,  1832. 

May  ..........      69 

AUSTIN,  ALFRED. 

Born  in  Headingly,  near  Leeds,  England,  May  30,  1835. 

Farewell  to  Spring  .......     136 

AUSTIN,  MRS.  JANE  [GOODWIN]. 

Born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  February  25,  1831. 

May  ..........      61 

BARNFIELD,  RICHARD. 

Born  in  England,  circa  1574. 
Died  in  England,  circa  1616. 

As  it  Fell  upon  a  Day      ......      73 

BATES,  CHARLOTTE  FISKE. 

Born  in  New  York  City,  November  30,  1838. 


In  May      .........     141 

BENNETT,  WILLIAM  Cox. 

Born  in  Greenwich,  England,  1820. 

A  Spring  Song         .        .  ^  .        .     133 

My  Day  Song  ........        8 

BIGELOW,  MELVILLE  MADISON. 

Born  in  Eaton  Rapids,  Michigan,  August  2,  1^46. 

Rondeau  ....        .....     142 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  Xlll 

PACK 
BLACKIE,  JOHN  STUART. 

Born  in  Glasgow,  Scotland,  July,  1809. 

Cuckoo !  Cuckoo      .......        3 

BLAKE,  MRS.  MARY  ELIZABETH  [McGRATH]. 

Born  in  Dungarven,  County  Waterford,  Ireland,  September  i,  1840. 

May 32 

One  Swallow 12 

The  Pulse  of  May Title-page 

BOURDILLON,  FRANCIS  WILLIAM. 

Bora  in  Woolbedding,  Sussex,  England,  1852. 

Idle  Days xxviii 

BOYLE,  MRS.  SARAH  [ROBERTS]. 

Born  in  Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire,  18 — . 
Died  in  New  York  City,  March  16,  1868. 

The  Voice  of  the  Grass 14 

BRETON,  NICHOLAS. 

Born  in  England,  1555. 
Died  in  England,  1624. 

Phillida  and  Corydon      ......      29 

BRIDGES,  ROBERT. 

Born  in  England,  1844. 

Late  Spring  Evening        ......     134 

BROWNING,  ROBERT. 

Born  in  Camberwell,  Surrey,  England,  181*. 

May  and  Death 140 

When  May  Follows 48 


XIV  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

PACK 

BRYANT,  WILLIAM  CULLEN. 

Born  in  Cummington,  Massachusetts,  November  3,  1794. 
Died  in  New  York  City,  June  12,  1878. 

May  Evening 37 

CANTON,  WILLIAM. 

Born  in  the  Island  of  Chusan,  near  China,  October  27,  1845. 

The  Woodwele  in  May 119 

CAPERN,  EDWARD. 

Born  in  Tiverton,  Devonshire,  England,  January  29,  1819. 

A  May  Memory 18 

CHAUCER,  GEOFFREY. 

Born  in  London,  England,  circa.  1328. 
Died  in  London,  England,  October  25,  1400. 

The  Daisy 28 

CHENEY,  JOHN  VANCE. 

Born  in  Groveland,  Livingston  Co.,  New  York,  December  29,  1848. 

When  Beeches  brighten  Early  May        .        .        .11 
CONE,  HELEN  GRAY. 

Born  in  New  York  City,  March  8,  1839. 

At  Whitsuntide 138 

COOLBRITH,  INA  DONNA. 

Born  in  Springfield,  Illinois,  18 — . 

In  Blossom  Time 65 

CROSS,  MRS.  MARIAN  [EVANS]  [LEWES]. 

Born  in  Griff,  Warwickshire,  England,  November  22,  1819. 
Died  in  London,  England,  December  22,  1880. 

In  the  Prime  of  Spring 107 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  XV 

PAGE 

CRAIK,  MRS.  DINAH  MARIA  [MULOCK]. 

Born  in  Stoke-upon-Trent,  England,  1826. 

The  Green  Things  Growing 25 

BARLEY,  GEORGE. 

Born  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  1785. 
Died  in  London,  England,  1849. 

The  Queen  of  the  May 15 

DAVIES,  SIR  JOHN. 

Born  in  Tisbury,  Wiltshire,  England,  1570. 
Died  in  England,  December  7,  1626. 

To  the  Month  of  May 122 


DE  VERE,  AUBREY  THOMAS. 

Born  in  Curra  Chase,  County  Limerick,  Ireland,  January  10,  1814. 

Spring  Song     .        . 23 

DODGE,  MRS.  MARY  [MAPES] 

Born  in  New  York  City,  1838. 

A  Song  of  May 101 

DRUMMOND,  WILLIAM. 

Born  in  Hawthornden,  Scotland,  December  13,  1585. 
Died  in  Hawthornden,  Scotland,  December  4,  1649. 

Look  how  in  May     .......      44 

EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO. 

Born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  May  25,  1803. 
Died  in  Concord,  Massachusetts,  April  27,  1882. 

Heat 57 

The  Entering  May 10 

The  Rhodora 76 


XVi  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

PACK 

FAWCETT,  EDGAR. 

Born  in  New  York  City,  May  26,  1847. 

Fantasia  de  Printemps 58 

The  Maytime  Rapture uj 

GALLAGHER,  WILLIAM  D. 

Born  in  Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania,  August,  iSoS. 

May 48 

GOODALE,  DORA  READ. 

Born  in  South  Egremont,  Massachusetts,  October  29,  1866. 

In  May * .        .     139 

GRAVES,  ALFRED  PERCEVAL. 

Born  in  Dublin,  Ireland,  July  22,  1846. 

Beltane 4 

In  May 64 

The  First  Rose 1 18 

The  May  of  the  Year 123 

Windermere  in  Mid-May 91 

GRAY,  DAVID. 

Born  in  Duntiblae,  near  Glasgow,  Scotland,  January  29,  1838. 
Died  in  Merkland,  near  Glasgow,  Scotland,  December  3,  1861. 

First  Night  of  May 5 

In  May     .  69 

GRAY,  THOMAS. 

Born  in  London,  England,  December  26,  1716. 
Died  in  Cambridge,  England,  July  30,  1771. 

On  the  Spring 130 

GUNNISON,  ELISHA  NORMAN. 

Born  in  Charlestown,  Massachusetts,  May  15,  1837. 
Died  in  York,  Pennsylvania,  February  18,  1880. 

Waiting  for  June 129 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  XV11 

PACK 

HAVNE,  PAUL  HAMILTON. 

Born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  January  i,  1831. 

May 54 

Sylvan  Musings 95 

HAYNE,  WILLIAM  HAMILTON. 

Born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  March  n,  1856. 

May 45 

HERRICK,  ROBERT. 

Born  in  London,  England,  August  20,  1591. 

Died  in  Dean  Priors,  Devonshire,  England,  October  15,  1674. 

Corinna's  Going  A  Maying 5 

Fled  are  the  Frosts 60 

HEWLETT,  HENRY  GAY. 

Born  in  London,  England,  April  4,  1832. 

May 17 

HOPKINS,  MRS.  LOUISA  PARSONS  [STONE]. 

Born  in  Newburyport,  Massachusetts,  April  19,  1834. 

Apple  Blossoms 78 

HOVELL-THURLOW,  EDWARD. 

Born  in  England,  1781. 

Died  in  England,  June  4,  1829. 

Song  to  May .        .      So 

HOWARD,  HENRY. 

Born  in  England,  circa  1516. 

Died  in  London,  England,  January  21,  1547. 

Spring 53 

HOWELLS,  WILLIAM  DEAN. 

Born  in  Martinsville,  Ohio,  March  i,  1837. 

A  Springtime   ........     105 


XV111  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

PACK 
HUNT,  JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH. 

Born  in  Southgate,  England,  October  19,  1784, 
Died  in  Putney,  England,  August  28,  1859. 

To  May 97 

INGELOW,  JEAN. 

Born  in  Boston,  England,  1830. 

A  Morn  of  May 30 

In  a  May  Day  Hush 95 

IRONS,  GENEVIEVE  MARY. 

Born  in  Brompton,  London,  England,  December  28,  1855. 

A  May  Song 35 

JACKSON,  MRS.  HELEN  MARIA  [FISKE]  [HUNT]. 

Born  in  Amherst,  Massachusetts,  October  18,  1831. 
Died  in  San  Francisco,  California,  August  12,  1885. 

May 58 

KEBLE,  JOHN. 

Bom  in  Fairford,  Gloucestershire,  England,  April  25,  1792. 
Died  in  Bournemouth,  England,  March  29,  1866. 

When  Nature  tries  her  Finest  Touch     ...      91 
KENYON,  JAMES  BENJAMIN. 

Born  in  Frankfort,  Herkimer  County,  New  York,  April  26,  1858. 

Song  of  the  Spring 89 

LARCOM,  LUCY. 

Born  in  Beverly  Farms,  Massachusetts,  1826. 

Apple  Blossoms •      77 

LAZARUS,  EMMA.  « 

Born  in  New  York  City,  July  22,  1849. 

Expectation 24 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  XIX 

PAGE 
LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  WADSWORTH. 

Born  in  Portland,  Maine,  February  27,  1807. 

Died  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  March  24,  1882. 

38 


LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL. 

Born  in  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  February  22,  1819. 

May 56 

Maytide i" 

To  the  Dandelion    .        .        .        ...        .        .51 

MACREATH,  J. 

Born  in  England,  18 — . 

A  Quiet  Eve  in  Spring    ......      Si 

MARTIN,  WILLIAM  WILSEY. 

Born  in  Reading,  Berkshire,  England,  October  n,  1833. 

Apple  Blossoms 70 

Sweet  Laggard,  Come 47 

MASON,  MRS.  CAROLINE  ATHERTON  [BRIGGS]. 

Born  in  Marblehead,  Massachusetts,  July  27,  1823. 

May 24 

Pictures  of  Spring 83 

METEYARD,  MRS.  MARION  GREENWOOD  [LUNT]. 

Born  in  Newburyport,  Massachusetts,  July  18,  183-. 

May  Day  .........        8 

MILTON,  JOHN. 

Born  in  London,  England,  December  9,  1608. 
Died  in  London,  England,  November  8,  1674. 

Song  on  May  Morning 13 


XX  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

PAGB 

MORRIS,  LEWIS. 

Born  in  Caennarthen,  Wales,  January  23,  1833. 

A  Spring  Picture 138 

MORRIS,  WILLIAM. 

Born  near  London,  England,  March,  1834. 

May 82 

May  Grown  A-Cold 68 

Is  not  the  Maytime  now  on  Earth  ....  2 

The  Birds  in  May 128 

MOTHERVVEI.L,  WlLLIAM. 

Born  in  Glasgow,  Scotland,  October  13,  1797. 
Died  in  Glasgow,  Scotland,  November  i,  1835. 

May  Morn  Song 86 

MOULTON,  MRS.  LOUISE  [CHANDLER]. 

Born  in  Porafret,  Connecticut,  April  10,  1835. 

Mayflowers 19 

MUNKITTRICK,  RlCHARD  KENDALL. 
Born  in  Manchester,  England,  March  5,  1853. 

An  Orchard  Fancy 96 

NASH,  THOMAS. 

Born  in  Lowestoft,  Suffolk,  England,  1567. 
Died  in  London,  England,  circa  1601. 

Spring 46 

NOEL,  RODEN  BERKELEY  WRIOTHESLEY. 

Born  in  England,  18 — . 

Dark  Spring •        •      59 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  XXI 

PACK 

O'SHAUGHNESSY,  ARTHUR. 

Born  in  London,  England,  March  14,  1844. 
Died  in  London,  England,  January  30,  1881. 

Prophetic  Birds 127 

PARSONS,  THOMAS  WILLIAM. 

Born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  August  18,  1819. 

In  May 22 

PAYNE,  JOHN." 

Born  in  London,  England,  August  23,  1842. 


May  Memories 


PERCIVAL,  JAMES  GATES. 

Born  in  Berlin,  Connecticut,  September  15,  1795. 
Died  in  Hazel  Green,  Wisconsin,  May  2,  1856. 

May 99 

PERRY,  NORA. 

Born  in  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  18 — . 

Song  of  the  Princess  May 41 

PFEIFFER,  MRS.  EMILY  [DAVIS]. 

Born  in  England,  18 — . 

In  the  Spring  ........      42 

A  Song  of  Spring 109 

POWERS,  HORATIO  NELSON. 

Born  in  Araenia,  New  York,  April  30,  1826. 

Apple  Blossoms .      63 

READ,  THOMAS  BUCHANAN. 

Born  near  Chester,  Pennsylvania,  March  12,  1822. 
Died  in  New  York  City,  May  n,  1872. 

May  has  Come  In    .......         2 


XX11  INDEX   OS   AUTHORS. 

PACK 

SCOLLARD,  CLINTON. 

Born  in  Clinton,  New  York,  September  18,  1860. 

A  Snowflake  in  May 78 

Ballade  of  the  Maytime 118 

Beside  the  Sea 106 

SCOTT,  SIR  WALTER. 

Born  in  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  August  15,  1771. 
Died  at  Abbotsford,  Scotland,  September  21,  1832. 

The  Woods  in  May 102 


SHELLEY,  PERCY  BYSSHE. 

Born  in  Field  Place,  near  Horsham,  Surrey,  August  4,  1792. 
Drowned  in  the  Bay  of  Spczzia,  Italy,  July  8,  1822. 

In  Spring 88 

SHERMAN,  FRANK  DEMPSTER. 

Born  iii  Peekskill,  New  York,  May  16,  1860. 

Apple  Blossoms 99 

Re-awakening 38 

SINGLETON,  MRS.  MARY  MONTGOMERIE  [LAMB]. 

Born  in  England,  18 — . 

A  May  Song too 

SMITH,  ALEXANDER. 

Born  in  Kilmarnock,  Scotland,  December  31,  1830. 
Died  in  Wardie,  Scotland,  January  25,  1867. 

May  Gladness 68 

'Twas  Prime  of  May 90 

SMITH,  ANNIE  LEUTH.U.. 

Born  in  Stonington,  Connecticut,  18 — . 

May 44 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  XX111 

PACK 

SMITH,  MRS.  CHARLOTTE  [TURNER]. 

Bom  in  Sussex,  England,  1749. 

Died  in  Tetford,  England,  September  28,  1806. 

At  the  Close  of  Spring     ......     135 

The  Return  of  the  Nightingale        ....      30 

SPENSER,  EDMUND. 

Born  in  London,  England,  circa  1553. 
Died  in  London,  England,  January  15,  1599. 

In  May 112 

May 67 

SPOFFORD,  MRS.  HARRIET  ELIZABETH  [PRESCOTT]. 

Born  in  Calais,  Maine,  April  3,  1835. 

Maytime 132 

STEDMAN,  EDMUND  CLARENCE. 

Born  in  Hartford,  Connecticut,  October  8,  1833. 

Seeking  the  Mayflower 20 

STODDARD,  RICHARD  HENRY. 

Born  in  Hingham,  Massachusetts,  July,  1825. 

The  Flower  of  Love  lies  Bleeding  .        .        .        .114 
STREET,  ALFRED  BILLINGS. 

Bom  in  Poughkeepsie,  New  York,  December  18,  1811. 
Died  in  Albany,  New  York,  June  2,  1881. 

The  Canadian  Spring 113 

SWINP.URNE,  ALGERNON  CHARLES. 

Born  in  London,  England,  April  5,  1837. 

On  a  Country  Road 66 

Spring  in  Tuscany   .......       84 

Why  should  May  Remember  I        .        .       54 


XXIV  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

PAGE 

SYMONDS,  JOHN  ADDINGTON. 

Born  in  Bristol,  England,  October  5,  1840. 

On  the  Downs 116 

On  the  Thames 18 

TAYLOR,  BAYARD. 

Bom  in  Kennett  Square,  Pennsylvania,  January  n,  1825. 
Died  in  Berlin,  Germany,  December  19,  1878. 

Maytime 39 

TENNYSON,  ALFRED. 

Born  in  Somersby,  Lincolnshire,  England,  August  5,  1809. 

In  Joyous  Spring I 

In  May no 

In  Middle  May 98 

Spring 26 

THAXTER,  MRS.  CELIA  [LAIGHTON]. 

Bom  in  Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire,  1835. 

In  May 72 

May  Morning 55 

THOMSON,  JAMES. 

Bom  in  Ednam,  Roxburghshire,  Scotland,  September  n,  1700. 
Died  in  New  Lane,  near  Richmond,  England,  August  27,  1748. 

On  May 27 

THORNBURY,  GEORGE  WALTER. 

Bora  in  London,  England,  1828. 

Died  in  London,  England,  June  n,  1876. 

May 90 

VAN  RENSSELAER,  MRS.  MARIANA  [GRISWOLIJ]. 

Born  in  New  York  City,  1831. 

Como  in  May 108 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  XXV 

PAGE 
WEEKS,  ROBERT  KELLEY. 

Born  in  New  York  City,  September  21,  1840. 
Died  in  New  York  City,  April  13,  1876. 

In  May 79 

Moonlight  in  May    .......  39 

Spring  Song 103 

Vita  Vitalis 92 

WHITMAN,  MRS.  SARAH  HELEN  [POWER]. 

Born  in  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  1803. 

Died  in  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  June  27,  1878. 

Moonrise  in  May      .        .        .         .        t         .         .124 

WHITNEY,  ANNE. 

Born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  September  2,  1820. 

In  Maytime 117 

WILCOX,  CARLOS. 

Born  in  Newport,  New  Hampshire,  October  22,  1794. 
Died  in  Danbury,  Connecticut,  May  29,  1827. 

A  Late  Spring          .......      74 

WOOLSEY,  SARAH  CHAUNCEY. 

Born  in  Cleveland,  Ohio,  18 — . 

May 103 


MAY. 


IDLE  DAYS. 

Sing  me  a  song  of  idle  days, 

When  rosy  and  white  are  the  new-blown  mays. 

And  rosy  and  white  on  the  wanton  breeze 

The  petals  fall  from  the  apple  trees. 

And  under  the  hedge  where  the  shade  lies  «v/, 

Are  children,  picking  the  violet! 

Sing  me  a  song  of  idle  days, 

When  Spring  is  queen  over  woods  and  ways  / 

FRANCIS  WILLIAM  BOURDILLON. 


MAY. 


IN  JOYOUS  SPRING, 

LIKE  souls  that  balance  joy  and  pain, 
With  tears  and  smiles  from  heaven  again 
The  maiden  Spring  upon  the  plain 
Came  in  a  sunlit  fall  of  rain. 

In  crystal  vapor  everywhere 
Blue  isles  of  heaven  laughed  between, 
And,  far  in  forest-deeps  unseen, 
The  topmost  elm-tree  gathered  green 

From  draughts  of  balmy  air. 

Sometimes  the  linnet  piped  his  song : 
Sometimes  the  throstle  whistled  strong : 
Sometimes  the  sparhawk,  wheeled  along, 
Hushed  all  the  groves  from  fear  of  wrong: 

By  grassy  capes  with  fuller  sound 
In  curves  the  yellowing  river  ran, 
And  drooping  chestnut-buds  began 
To  spread  into  the  perfect  fan, 

Above  the  teeming  ground. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 
Sir  Lancelot  and  Queen  Gtiinevere. 


MA  Y  If  AS  COME  IN. 


IS  NOT  THE  MAYTIME   NOW  ON  EARTH. 

ORPHEUS. 

Is  not  the  Maytime  now  on  earth, 

When  close  against  the  city  wall 
The  folk  are  singing  in  their  mirth, 

While  on  their  heads  the  Mayflowers  fall  ? 

THE   SIRENS. 

Yes,  May  is  come,  and  its  sweet  breath 

Shall  well-nigh  make  you  weep  to-day, 
And  pensive  with  swift-coming  death, 
Shall  ye  be  satiate  of  the  May. 

WILLIAM  MORRIS. 
The  Life  and  Death  of  Jason. 


MA  Y  HAS  COME  IN. 

MAY  has  come  in,  —  young  May,  the  beautiful, 
Weaving  the  sweetest  chaplet  of  the  year. 
Along  the  eastern  corridors  she  walks, 
What  time  the  clover  rocks  the  earliest  bee, 
Her  feet  a  flush  with  sunrise,  and  her  veil 
Floating  in  breezy  odors  o'er  her  hair ; 
And  ample  garments,  fluttering  at  the  hem, 
With  pleasing  rustle  round  her  sandal-shoon. 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 
The  New  Pastoral. 


CUCKOO!  CUCKOO! 
CUCKOO!    CUCKOO! 

(SONG  FOR  THE  FIRST  OF  MAY.) 

"  CUCKOO  !  cuckoo  ! "  it  haunts  my  way ; 
I  hear  that  sweet  note  all  the  day, 
From  glen  to  glen,  from  brae  to  brae, 
While  I  pursue  my  grassy  way 

Through  Ettrick  vale  and  Yarrow ! 

"  Cuckoo  !  cuckoo  !  "  it  still  doth  say, 
The  very  spoken  breath  of  May, 
But  viewless  still  from  brae  to  brae, 
As  if  a  spirit  led  my  way, 

Through  all  the  length  of  Yarrow ! 

How  many  a  city  drudge  this  day, 
At  large  with  me  may  sigh  to  stray, 
Drinking  deep  draughts  of  breezy  May, 
With  "  Cuckoo  !  cuckoo  !  "  all  the  way, 

To  hymn  their  march  through  Yarrow ! 

Poor  city  scribes !  it  makes  me  grieve 
To  think  how  ye  from  inky  sleeve 
And  fretful  quill  find  no  reprieve, 
Nor  faction's  babbling  mart  may  leave 
To  taste  sweet  May  in  Yarrow. 

"  Cuckoo  !  cuckoo  !  "  it  haunts  my  way, 
Now  here,  now  there,  from  brae  to  brae ; 
It  floats  and  wanders  with  light  play 
From  dark  pine  wood  to  castle  grey, 
And  shepherd's  cot  in  Yarrow ! 


BELTANE. 

Ye  lords  and  ladies  gay,  who  ride 
Through  London  parks  in  dusty  pride, 
I  wish  you  all  might  here  abide, 
With  wimpling  waters  at  your  side, 

And  cuckoo's  note  in  Yarrow ! 

JOHN  STUART  BLACKIE. 


BELTANE* 
(FROM  THE  CELTIC  OF  FINN  MACCUMHIALL.) 

OH,  mild  May  day,  in  Fodla's  clime 

Of  fairy  color,  the  laughing  prime 

Of  leafy  summer  from  year  to  year, 

I  would  that  Leagha  were  with  me  here 

To  lie  and  listen  down  in  a  dell 

To  Eauba's  blackbirds  warbling  well, 

And  her  cuckoos  crying  with  constant  strain, 

Welcome,  welcome  the  bright  Beltane ; 

When  the  swallows  are  skimming  the  shore, 

And  the  swift  steed  stoops  to  the  fountain, 
And  the  weak,  fair  bog-down  grows  on  the  moor, 

And  the  heath  spreads  her  hair  on  the  mountain, 
And  the  signs  of  heaven  are  in  consternation, 

And  the  rushing  planets  such  radiance  pour, 
That  the  sea  lies  lulled,  and  the  generation 

Of  flowers  awakes  once  more. 

ALFRED  PERCEVAL  GRAVES. 

*  May  Day. 


CORINNAS  GOING  A-MAYING.  5 

FIRST  NIGHT  OF  MA  Y. 

FIRST  night  of  May !  and  the  soft-silvered  moon 

Brightens  her  semicircle  in  the  blue ; 

And  mid  the  tawny  orange  of  the  west 

Shines  the  full  star  that  ushers  in  the  even ! 

On  the  low  meadows  by  the  Luggie-side 

Gathers  a  semi-lucent  mist,  and  creeps 

In  busy  silence,  shrouding  golden  furze 

And  leafy  copsewood.     Through  the  tortuous  dell 

Like  an  eternal  sound  the  Luggie  flows 

In  unreposing  melody. 

DAVID  GRAY. 
The  Luggie, 


CO  RINNANS  GOING  A-MAYING. 

GET  up,  get  up  for  shame,  the  blooming  morn 
Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn. 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colors  through  the  air ; 
Get  up,  sweet  slug-a-bed,  and  see 
The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 
Each  flower  has  wept,  and  bowed  toward  the  East, 
Above  an  hour  since,  yet  you  not  dressed, 
Nay !  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed ; 
When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said, 
And  sung  their  thankful  hymns ;  'tis  sin, 
Nay,  profanation  to  keep  in, 
Whenas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day 
Spring,  sooner  than  the  lark  to  fetch  in  May. 


6  CORINNA'S  GOING  A-MAYING. 

Rise,  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 
To  come  forth  like  the  springtime,  fresh  and  green, 
And  sweet  as  Flora.     Take  no  care 
For  jewels  for  your  gown  or  hair ; 
Fear  not,  the  leaves  will  strew 
Gems  in  abundance  upon  you ; 
Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept 
Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  unwept. 
Come,  and  receive  them  while  the  light 
Hangs  on  the  dew  locks  of  the  night, 
And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill 
Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
Till  you  come  forth.     Wash,  dress,  be  brief  in  pray- 

ino"  • 
llls>  > 

Few  beads  are  best,  when  once  we  go  a-Maying. 


Come,  my  Corinna,  come ;  and,  coming,  mark 
How  each  field  turns  a  street,  each  street  a  park 

Made  green,  and  trimmed  with  trees ;  see  how 
Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 
Or  branch ;  each  porch,  each  door,  ere  this, 
An  ark  or  tabernacle  is, 
Made  up  of  whitethorn  neatly  interwove, 
As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 
Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street 
And  open  fields,  and  we  not  see't  ? 
Come,  we'll  abroad,  and  let's  obey 
The  proclamation  made  for  May : 
And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  staying ; 
But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 


CORWA'A'S    GOING    A-MAYING.  / 

There's  not  a  budding  boy  or  girl,  this  day, 
But  is  got  up  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 
A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come 
Back,  and  with  whitethorn  laden,  home. 
Some  have  dispatched  their  cakes  and  cream 
Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream  : 
And  some  have  wept,  and  wooed,  and  plighted  troth, 
And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off  sloth ; 
Many  a  green  gown  has  been  given, 
Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even, 
Many  a  glance,  too,  has  been  sent 
From  out  the  eye,  love's  firmament ; 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  key's  betraying 
This  night,  and  locks  picked,  yet  we  are  not  a-May- 
ing. 

Come,  let  us  go,  while  we  are  in  our  prime, 
And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time. 

We  shall  grow  old  apace  and  die 

Before  we  know  our  liberty. 

Our  life  is  short,  and  our  days  run 

As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun, 
And  as  a  vapor,  or  a  drop  of  rain 
Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again ; 

So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made 

A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade, 

All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 

Lies  drowned  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Then  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  decaying, 
Come,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a-Maying. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 


8  MAY  DA Y.  —MA Y  DAY  SONG. 

MA  Y  DA  Y. 

I  WALKED,  in  the  "  sweet  season's  "  opening, 

Through  budding  groves,  in  downy  wealth  arrayed ; 
For  bliss   the   unfettered   streamlet   danced  and 
played, 

But  dead  leaves  strewed  the  ground,  —  no  sign  of 
spring ! 

O  sweet  south  wind,  I  cried,  the  blossoms  bring ! 
When  May  on  these  dull  eyes  her  sceptre  laid ; 
I  turned,  and  lo  !  fresh  green  in  field  and  glade, 

And  sweet  young  life  in  every  growing  thing. 

So  through  a  barren  world  we  listless  move, 
Though  fair  the  distant  scene,  yet  close  to  us 
Dead  leaves  of  disappointment  and  despair. 

Then  suddenly  appears  the  enchanter,  Love, 
Touches  us  with  his  sceptre  luminous, 
And  joy's  bright  blossoms  greet  us  everywhere. 

MRS.  MARION  GREENWOOD  [LUNT]  METEYARD. 


MA  Y  DAY  SONG. 

OUT  from  cities  haste  away, 
This  is  earth's  great  holiday ; 
Who  can  labor  while  the  hours 
In  with  songs  are  bringing  May 
Through  the  gaze  of  buds  and  flowers, 
Through  the  golden  pomp  of  day  ? 

Haste,  O  haste  ! 

'Tis  sin  to  waste 


MAY  DAY  SONG.  9 

In  dull  work  so  sweet  a  time, 

Dance  and  song 

Of  right  belong 

To  the  hours  of  spring's  sweet  prime. 
Golden  beams  and  shadows  brown, 
Where  the  roofs  of  knotted  trees 
Fling  a  pleasant  coolness  down, 
Footing  it,  the  young  May  sees ; 
In  their  dance  the  breezes  now 
Dimple  every  pond  you  pass ; 
Shades  of  leaves,  from  every  bough 
Leaping,  beat  the  dappled  grass. 
Birds  are  noisy,  —  bees  are  humming, 
All  because  the  May's  a  coming ; 
All  the  tongues  of  Nature  shout, 
Out  from  town,  from  cities  out ! 
Out  from  every  busy  street ! 
Out  from  every  darkened  court ! 
Through  the  field-paths  let  your  feet 
Lingering  go  in  pleasant  thought ! 
Out  through  dells  the  violet's  haunting ! 
Out  where  golden  rivers  run ! 
Where  the  wallflower's  gayly  flaunting 
In  the  livery  of  the  sun. 
Trip  it  through  the  shadows,  hiding 
Down  in  hollow  winding  lanes  ! 
Where  through  leaves  the  sunshine  gliding 
Deep  with  gold  the  woodland  stains  ! 
Where,  in  all  her  pomp  of  weeds, 
Nature,  asking  but  the  thanks 
Of  our  pleasure,  richly  pranks 


IO  777^  ENTERING  MAY. 

Painted  heaths  and  wayside  banks, 
Smooth-mown  lawns  and  green  deep  meads ! 
Leave  the  noisy  bustling  town 
For  still  glade  and  breezy  down ! 

Haste  away 

To  meet  the  May, 
This  is  earth's  great  holiday ! 

WILLIAM  Cox  BENNETT. 


THE  ENTERING  MAY. 

WHERE  shall  we  keep  the  holiday, 

And  duly  greet  the  entering  May  ? 

Too  strait  and  low  our  cottage  doors, 

And  all  unmeet  our  carpet  floors ; 

Nor  spacious  court,  nor  monarch's  hall, 

Suffice  to  hold  the  festival. 

Up  and  away !  where  haughty  woods 

Front  the  liberated  floods  : 

We  will  climb  the  broad-backed  hills, 

Hear  the  uproar  of  their  joy ; 

We  will  mark  the  leaps  and  gleams 

Of  the  new-delivered  streams, 

And  the  murmuring  rivers  of  sap 

Mount  in  the  pipes  of  the  trees, 

Giddy  with  day,  to  the  topmost  spire, 

Which  for  a  spike  of  tenderest  green 

Bartered  its  powdery  cap ; 

And  the  colors  of  joy  in  the  bird, 

And  the  love  in  its  carol  heard, 


WHEN  BEECHES  BRIGHTEN  EARL  Y  MA  Y.      1 1 

Frog  and  lizard  in  holiday  coats, 
And  turtle  brave  in  his  golden  spots ; 
While  cheerful  cries  of  crag  and  plain 
Reply  to  the  thunder  of  river  and  main. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 
May-Day. 


WHEN  BEECHES  BRIGHTEN  EARLY  MAY. 

WHEN  beeches  brighten  early  May 
And  young  grass  shines  along  her  way ; 
When  Joy  first  bares  his  sunny  head, 
Leaned  over  brook  and  blossom-bed  ; 
When  smell  of  spring  fills  all  the  air, 
And  wooing  birds  make  music  there  ; 
When  naught  of  sound  or  sight  shall  grieve 
From  quiring  morn  to  quiet  eve,  — 
My  restless  thoughts  are  forward  cast. 
This  loveliness,  —  it  cannot  last ; 
The  merry  field,  the  ringing  bough, 
Shall  silent  be  as  tuneful,  now ; 
Chill,  warning  winds  shall  hither  roam, 
The  Summer's  children  hasten  home : 
That  blue  solicitude  of  sky 
Bent  over  beauty  doomed  to  die, 
Ere  long  shall,  pitying,  witness  here 
The  yielded  glory  of  the  year. 

JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY. 

///  the  Century  Magazine* 


12  ONE  SWALLOW. 

ONE  SWALLOW. 

THE  day  was  grey  and  dark  and  chill ; 

Though  May  had  come  to  meet  us, 
So  closely  April  lingered  still, 

She  had  no  heart  to  greet  us  ; 
When,  with  a  swift  and  sudden  flight, 

Wind-blown  o'er  hill  and  hollow, 
Two  grey  wings  swept  across  my  sight, 

And  lo !  the  first  wild  swallow. 

"  Alas,  fair  bird  !  thy  little  breast, 

That  cuts  the  air  so  fleetly, 
Should  still  have  pressed  its  southern  nest 

Till  June  was  piping  sweetly. 
In  spite  of  cheery  song  and  voice, 

Thou  brave  and  blithe  newcomer, 
I  cannot  in  thy  joy  rejoice  : 

One  swallow  makes  no  summer." 

Thus,  in  my  thought  I  fain  would  say ; 

Meantime,  on  swift  wing  speeding, 
Its  wild  and  winning  roundelay 

The  bird  sang  on  unheeding ; 
Of  odorous  fields  and  drowsy  noons, 

Of  slow  tides  landward  creeping, 
Of  woodlands  thrilled  with  jocund  tunes, 

Of  soft  airs  hushed  and  sleeping : 

He  sang  of  waving  forest  heights 

With  strong  green  boughs  upspringing ; 


SONG  ON  MAY  MORNING,  13 

Of  faint  stars  paie  with  drowsy  lights, 

In  dusky  heavens  swinging ; 
Of  nests  high-hung  in  cottage  eaves, 

Of  yellow  cornfields  growing, 
And,  through  the  long,  slim,  fluttering  leaves, 

The  sleepy  winds  a-blowing ; 

He  sang  until  my  soul  took  heed 

Of  warm,  soft-falling  showers, 
Of  dells  high-piled  with  tangled  leaves, 

And  gay  with  tangled  flowers ; 
Of  life,  and  love,  and  hope's  bright  crew, 

This  brave  and  blithe  newcomer : 
And  so  —  and  so  —  at  last  I  knew 

One  swallow  made  the  summer ! 

MRS.  MARY  ELIZABETH  [MCGRATH]  BLAKE. 


SONG   ON  MA  Y  MORNING. 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  East,  and  leads  with  her 
The  flowery  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip  and  the  pale  primrose. 
Hail,  bounteous  May,  that  dost  inspire 
Mirth  and  youth  and  warm  desire  ; 

Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing, 
Hill  and  vale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 

JOHN  MILTON. 


14  THE    VOICE   OF  7 HE   GRASS. 

THE    VOICE  OF  THE  GRASS. 

HERE  I  come,  creeping,  creeping  everywhere 

By  the  dusty  roadside, 

On  the  sunny  hillside, 

Close  by  the  noisy  brook, 

In  every  shady  nook, 
I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come,  creeping,  smiling  everywhere  : 
All  around  the  open  door, 
Where  sit  the  aged  poor, 
Here  where  the  children  play, 
In  the  bright  and  merry  May, 

I  come  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come,  creeping,  creeping  everywhere : 

In  the  noisy  city  street 

My  pleasant  face  you'll  meet, 

Cheering  the  sick  at  heart, 

Toiling  his  busy  part, 
Silently  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come,  creeping,  creeping  everywhere : 
You  cannot  see  me  coming, 
Nor  hear  my  low  sweet  humming; 
For  in  the  starry  night, 
And  the  glad  morning  light, 

I  come  quietly  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come,  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  : 
More  welcome  than  the  flowers, 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  MAY.  1 5 

In  summer's  pleasant  hours  ; 
The  gentle  cow  is  glad, 
And  the  merry  bird  not  sad, 
To  see  me  creeping,  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come,  creeping,  creeping  everywhere  : 

When  you're  numbered  with  the  dead 

In  your  still  and  narrow  bed, 

In  the  happy  spring  I'll  come 

And  deck  your  silent  home, 
Creeping,  silently  creeping  everywhere. 

Here  I  come,  creeping,  creeping  everywhere : 

My  humble  song  of  praise 

Most  joyfully  I  raise 

To  Him  at  whose  command 

I  beautify  the  land, 
Creeping,  silently  creeping  everywhere. 

MRS.  SARAH  [ROBERTS]  BOYLE. 


THE   QUEEN  OF  THE  MAY. 

HERE'S  a  bank  with  rich  cowslips  and  cuckoo-buds 

strewn, 
To  exalt  your  bright  looks,  gentle  Queen  of  the 

May ! 

Here's  a  cushion  of  moss  for  your  delicate  shoon, 
And  a  woodbine  to  weave  you  a  canopy  gay. 


1 6  THE  ARBUTUS. 

Here's  a  garland  of  red  maiden-roses  for  you  ; 

Such  a  delicate  wreath  is  for  beauty  alone  ; 
Here's  a  golden  kingcup,  brimming  over  with  dew, 

To  be  kissed  by  a  lip  just  as  sweet  as  its  own. 

Here  are  bracelets  of  pearl  from  the  fount  in  the  dale, 
That  the  nymph  of  the  wave  on  your  wrists  doth 

bestow ; 
Here's  a  lily-wrought  scarf  your  sweet  blushes  to 

hide, 
Or  to  lie  on  that  bosom,  like  snow  upon  snow. 

Here's  a  myrtle  enwreathed  with  a  jessamine  band, 
To  express  the  fond  twining  of  beauty  and  youth ; 

Take  the  emblem  of  love  in  thy  exquisite  hand, 
And  do  thou  sway  the  evergreen  sceptre  of  truth. 

Then  around  you  we'll  dance,  and  around  you  we'll 
sing, 

To  soft  pipe  and  tabor  we'll  foot  it  away ; 
And  the  hills  and  the  dales  and  the  forest  shall  ring, 

While  we  hail  you  our  lovely  young  Queen  of  the 

May. 

GEORGE  BARLEY. 


THE  ARBUTUS. 

THIS  flower  has  lived  and  breathed  and  moved, 
And  borne  'mong  men  a  human  name  ; 

Nay,  more,  it  loved  and  was  beloved, 
And  filled  the  first  world  with  its  fame. 


MAY.  I/ 

It  still  might  in  our  gardens  thrive 

But  that  high  love  is  out  of  date ; 
We  rather  choose  to  build  and  wive, 

And  trade  in  souls  at  market's  rate. 

She  rather  chose  to  be  a  flower, 
Hid  in  the  deep  and  silent  wood ; 

And  only  shows  her  perfumed  power 
When  lovers  breathe  its  solitude. 

JOHN  ALBEE, 


MAY. 

THE  earth  can,  like  the  soul,  but  once  be  wed. 

The  sun,  howe'er  his  love  may  slacken  or  stray, 

In  March  woos  hotly,  wearies  of  delay 
Ere  fitful  April's  budding-time  be  sped, 

And  claims  his  bridal  blossom-time  in  May. 
The  sacred  rites  bird-voices  overhead 

Acclaim  in  antiphon  from  dawn  of  day : 
And  for  the  drapery  of  the  spousal  bed 
The  beech  brings  leaflets  fresh  from  downy  sheaths  ; 

There  spreads  the  oak  its  cool  green  light,  and 
here 

The  elm  its  cool  green  shadow ;  far  and  near 
The  apple  flushes  and  the  whitethorn  breathes. 
Such  close  embraces  passion  never  wreathes 

As  those  that  pledge  the  promise  of  the  year. 

HENRY  GAY  HEWLETT. 
An  English  Year. 


1 8       Off  THE    THAMES.— A  MAY  MEMORY. 

ON  THE    THAMES. 

O  SHOUT,  for  the  morning 
Hath  heard  April's  warning, 
And  earth  is  adorning 

The  bride-bed  of  May ! 
O  shout,  for  the  lover 
Of  flowers  shall  discover 
Mid  the  haunts  of  the  plover 

New  snowflakes  to-day  ! 

Low  down  on  the  river 
Rathe  aspen  leaves  shiver, 
And  soaring  larks  quiver 

Aloft  in  the  sun  : 
The  whole  world  is  ringing 
With  laughter  and  singing; 
Why  need  we  be  clinging 

To  grief  that  is  gone  ? 

JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS. 


A   MAY  MEMORY. 

A  COTTAGE  in  a  winding  lane, 

Reed-roofed  and  clasped  with  jessamine  ; 
A  face  seen  through  a  window-pane 

With  charms  that  any  lad  would  win. 

A  pair  of  eyes  as  sapphire  blue, 
A  rivulet  of  golden  hair, 


MAYFLOWERS.  19 

Cheeks  shaming  e'en  the  rose's  hue, 
Fresh  vermeil  lips  of  beauty  rare. 

A  morning  in  the  month  of  May, 

A  laddie  standing  at  a  gate  ; 
A  look,  but  not  a  word  to  say ; 

A  sigh  from  one  without  a  mate. 

A  little  chamber,  hawthorn-sweet, 

A  head  low  resting  on  a  hand, 
Slow  pacing  of  two  dainty  feet, 

A  vacant  stare  out  on  the  land. 

A  tiny  drop  of  liquid  pearl, 

A  joy  gone  nothing  can  restore ; 
The  funeral  of  a  village  girl, 

A  grave  and  peace  forevermore. 

EDWARD  CAPERN. 


MAYFLOWERS. 

IF  you  catch  a  breath  of  sweetness, 

And  follow  the  odorous  hint 
Through  woods  where  the  dead  leaves  rustle, 

And  the  golden  mosses  glint, 

Along  the  spicy  sea  coast, 

Over  the  desolate  down, 
You  will  find  the  dainty  Mayflowers 

When  you  come  to  Plymouth  town. 


2O  SEEKING    THE  MAYFLOWER. 

Where  the  shy  spring  tends  her  darlings, 
And  hides  them  away  from  sight, 

Pull  off  the  covering  leaf-sprays, 
And  gather  them  pink  and  white, 

Tinted  by  mystical  moonlight, 

Freshened  by  frosty  dew, 
Till  the  fair,  transparent  blossoms 

To  their  pure  perfection  grew. 

Then  carry  them  home  to  your  lady, 

For  flower  of  the  spring  is  she, 
Pink  and  white,  and  dainty  and  slight, 

And  lovely  as  lovely  can  be. 

Shall  they  die  because  she  is  fair, 

Or  live  because  she  is  sweet  ? 
They  will  know  for  which  they  were  born, 

But  you,  —  must  wait  at  her  feet. 

MRS.  LOUISE  [CHANDLER]  MOULTON. 


SEEKING   THE  MAYFLOWER. 

THE  sweetest  sound  our  whole  year  round : 
'Tis  the  first  robin  of  the  spring  ! 

The  song  of  the  full  orchard  choir 
Is  not  so  fine  a  thing. 


SEEKING   THE  MAYFLOWER.  21 

Glad  sights  are  common ;  Nature  draws 
Her  random  pictures  through  the  year, 

But  oft  her  music  bids  us  long 
Remember  those  most  dear. 

To  me,  when  in  the  sudden  spring 

I  hear  the  earliest  robin's  lay, 
With  the  first  trill  there  comes  again 

One  picture  of  the  May. 

The  veil  is  parted  wide,  and  lo, 

A  moment,  though  my  eyelids  close, 

Once  more  I  see  that  wooded  hill 
Where  the  arbutus  gro\vs. 

I  see  the  village  dryad  kneel, 

Trailing  her  slender  fingers  through 

The  knotted  tendrils,  as  she  lifts 
Their  pink  pale  flowers  to  view. 

Once  more  I  dare  to  stoop  beside 
The  dove-eyed  beauty  of  my  choice, 

And  long  to  touch  her  careless  hair, 
And  think  how  dear  her  voice. 

My  eager,  wandering  hands  assist 
With  fragrant  blooms  her  lap  to  fill, 

And  half  by  chance  they  meet  her  own, 
Half  by  our  young  hearts'  will. 

Till  at  the  last,  those  blossoms  won, 
Like  her,  so  pure,  so  sweet,  so  shy, 


22  IN  AT  AY. 

Upon  the  grey  and  lichened  rocks 
Close  at  her  feet  I  lie. 

Fresh  blows  the  breeze  through  hemlock  trees, 
The  fields  are  edged  with  green  below ; 

And  naught  but  youth  and  hope  and  love 
We  know  or  care  to  know. 

Hark !  from  the  moss-clung  apple  bough, 
Beyond  the  tumbled  wall,  there  broke 

That  gurgling  music  of  the  May  : 
'Twas  the  first  robin  spoke. 

I  heard  it,  ay,  and  heard  it  not, 

For  little  then  my  glad  heart  wist 
What  toil  and  time  should  come  to  pass, 

And  what  delight  be  missed ; 

Nor  thought  thereafter,  year  by  year 
Hearing  that  fresh  yet  olden  song, 

To  yearn  for  unreturning  joys 
That  with  its  joy  belong. 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


IN  MA  Y. 

OH,  sing !  the  swallows  are  in  tune, 

Forget  the  rain  of  yesterday ; 
A  few  more  suns  will  bring  us  June, 

And  this,  'tis  Chaucer's  month,  —  'tis  May. 

THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS. 
May  Day. 


SPRING  SONG.  23 

SPRING  SONG. 

CREEP  slowly  up  the  willow  wand, 
Young  leaves  !  and  in  your  lightness, 

Teach  us  that  spirits  which  despond 
May  wear  their  own  pure  brightness. 

Into  new  sweetness  slowly  dip, 

O  May  !  —  advance  ;  yet  linger ; 
Nor  let  the  ring  too  swiftly  slip 

Down  that  new-plighted  finger. 

Thy  bursting  blooms,  O  Spring,  retard ! 

While  thus  thy  raptures  press  on, 
How  many  a  joy  is  lost,  or  marred 

How  many  a  lovely  lesson. 

For  each  new  sweet  thou  giv'st  us,  those 

Which  first  we  loved  are  taken  : 
In  death  their  eyes  must  violets  close 

Before  the  rose  can  waken. 

Ye  woods,  with  ice-threads  tingling  late, 

Where  late  was  heard  the  robin, 
Your  chants  that  hour  but  antedate 

When  autumn  winds  are  sobbing ! 

Ye  gummy  buds,  in  silken  sheath 

Hang  back,  content  to  glisten ! 
Hold  in,  O  earth,  thy  charmed  breath ! 

Thou  air,  be  still  and  listen ! 

AUBREY  THOMAS  DE  VERB, 


24  MA  K  —  EXPECTA  T/OM 

MAY. 

I  SAW  a  child,  once,  that  had  lost  its  way 

In  a  great  city :  ah,  dear  Heaven,  such  eyes  ! 
A  far-off  look  in  them,  as  if  the  skies 

Her  birthplace  were.     So  looks  to  me  the  May. 

April  is  winsome  ;  June  is  glad  and  gay ; 

May  glides  betwixt  them  in  such  wondering  wise, 
Lovely  as  dropped  from  some  far  Paradise, 

And  knowing,  all  the  while,  herself  astray. 

Or,  is  the  fault  with  us  ?  Nay,  call  it  not 
A  fault,  but  a  sweet  trouble.  Is  it  we, 
(Catching  some  glimpse  of  our  own  destiny 

In  May's  renewing  touch,  some  yearning  thought 
Of  Heaven,  beneath  her  resurrecting  hand) 
We  who  are  aliens,  lost  in  a  strange  land  ? 

MRS.  CAROLINE  ATHERTON  [BRIGGS]  MASON. 
In  TAf  Century  Magazine. 


EXPECTA  TION. 

WHITE-FLOWERED  orchards  where  young  buds  un- 
fold, 

Sweet-smelling,  shining,  shower-crumpled  grass, 

Rainbows  above  where  late  the  rain-cloud  was, 
Now  a  bright  harmless  heap  of  vapory  gold. 

The  sharp  rim  of  the  slim  new  moon  on  high 

Is  cut  against  the  rosy  western  sky ; 


THE   GREEN  THINGS  GROWING.  25 

The  fresh  breeze  curves  the  same  crisp  ripple  soft 
On  the  green  earth  as  on  the  smooth  light  stream, 
Wherein  the  double  sky  and  landscape  gleam 

With  every  cloud  the  sunshine  smites  aloft. 

Ah !  restless,  fond,  insatiate  human  heart, 
Filled  full  with  all  the  pleasure  of  the  spring, 
Yet  holding  it  but  as  a  little  thing, 

And  pressing  forward,  yearning  to  take  part 
In  something  wider,  larger,  fairer  still, 
Nor  noting  beauty  of  sky,  field  or  hill. 

The  clear  horizon,  the  far-shining  sea 

Invite  and  beckon  :  all  the  bloom  and  glow 
Seem  but  an  earnest  of  what  time  will  show, 

And  the  pulse  leaps  with  wild  expectancy. 

EMMA  LAZARUS. 


THE  GREEN  THINGS  GROWING. 

THE  green  things  growing,  the  green  things  growing, 
The  faint,  sweet  smell  of  the  green  things  growing ! 
I  should  like  to  live,  whether  I  smile  or  grieve, 
Just   to  watch  the  happy  life  of   my  green   things 
growing. 

O  the  fluttering  and  the  pattering  of   those  green 

things  growing ! 
How  they  talk  each  to  each,  when  none  of  us  are 

knowing  ; 


26  SPRING. 

In  the  wonderful  white  of  the  weird  moonlight 
Or  the  dim  dreamy  dawn  when  the  cocks  are  crow- 
ing. 

I  love,  I  love  them  so,  —  my  green  things  growing ! 

And  I  think  that  they  love  me,  without  false  show- 
ing; 

For  by  many  a  tender  touch,  they  comfort  me  so 
much, 

With  the  soft  mute  comfort  of  green  things  growing. 

And  in  the  rich  store  of  their  blossoms  glowing 
Ten  for  one  I  take  they're  on  me  bestowing  : 
Oh,  I  should  like  to  see,  if  God's  \\  ill  it  may  be, 
Many,  many  a  summer  of  my  green  things  growing ! 

But  if  I  must  be  gathered  for  the  angels'  sowing, 

Sleep  out  of  sight  awhile,  like  the  green  things  grow- 
ing, 

Though  dust  to  dust  return,  I  think  I'll  scarcely 
mourn, 

If  I  may  change  into  green  things  growing. 

/MRS.  DINAH  MARIA  [MULOCK]  CRAIK. 


SPRING. 

BIRDS'  love  and  birds'  song 
Flying  here  and  there, 

Birds'  song  and  birds'  love, 
And  you  with  gold  for  hair ! 


ON  MA  Y.  27 

Birds'  song  and  birds'  love, 

Passing  with  the  weather, 
Men's  song  and  men's  love, 

To  love  once  and  for  ever. 

Men's  love  and  birds'  love, 

And  women's  love  and  men's ! 
And  you  my  wren  with  a  crown  of  gold, 

You  my  Queen  of  the  wrens ! 
You  the  Queen  of  the  wrens  ! 

We'll  be  birds  of  a  feather ; 
I'll  be  King  of  the  Queen  of  the  wrens, 

And  all  in  a  nest  together. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


ON  MA  Y. 

AMONG  the  changing  months,  May  stands  confessed 

The  sweetest,  and  in  fairest  colors  dressed ! 

Soft  as  the  breeze  that  fans  the  smiling  field ; 

Sweet  as  the  breath  that  opening  roses  yield ; 

Fair  as  the  color  lavish  Nature  paints 

On  virgin  flowers  free  from  unodorous  taints  ! 

To  rural  scenes  thou  temp'st  the  busy  crowd, 

Who,  in  each  grove,  thy  praises  sing  aloud  ! 

The    blooming   belles   and   shallow  beaux,  strange 

sight, 

Turn  nymphs  and  swains,  and  in  their  sports  delight. 

JAMES  THOMSON. 


28  THE  DAISY. 

THE  DAISY. 

ON  bookes  for  to  read  I  me  delight, 
And  to  them  give  I  faith  and  full  credence, 
And  in  mine  heart  have  them  in  reverence, 
So  heartily  that  there  is  game  none 
That  fro  my  bookes  maketh  me  to  gone, 
But  it  be  seldom  on  the  holy-day : 
Save,  certainly,  that  when  the  month  of  May 
Is  comen,  and  that  I  hear  the  fowles  sing, 
And  that  the  flowers  ginnen  for  to  spring,  — 
Farewell  my  book  and  my  devotion  ! 
Now  have  I  then  eke  this  condition, 
As  that,  of  all  the  flowers  in  the  mead, 
Then  love  I  most  these  flowers  white  and  red, 
Such  that  men  callen  daisies  in  our  town. 
To  them  I  have  so  great  affection, 
As  I  said  erst,  when  comen  is  the  May 
That  in  my  bed  there  daweth  me  no  day 
That  I  n'am  up  and  walking  in  the  mead, 
To  seen  this  flower  against  the  sunne  sprede. 
When  it  upriseth  early  by  the  morrow, 
That  blissful  sight  softeneth  all  my  sorrow; 
So  glad  am  I,  when  that  I  have  presence 
Of  it,  to  done  it  alle  reverence, 
As  she  that  is  of  all  flowers  the  flower, 
Fulfilled  of  all  virtue  and  honor, 
And  ever  alike  fair  and  fresh  of  hue ; 
And  ever  I  love  it  and  ever  alike  new, 
And  ever  shall  till  that  mine  hearte  die. 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER. 
The  Legend  of  Good  Women.    (Prologue.) 


PHILLIDA  AND   CORYDON.  29 

PHILLIDA   AND   CORYDON. 

IN  the  merry  month  of  May, 

In  a  morn  by  break  of  day, 
Forth  I  walked  by  the  woodside, 

Whenas  May  was  in  his  pride. 
There  I  spied,  all  alone, 

Phillida  and  Corydon. 

Much  ado  there  was,  God  wot ! 

He  would  love,  and  she  would  not ; 
She  said,  "  Never  man  was  true  ;  " 

He  said,  "  None  was  false  to  you ;  " 
He  said,  he  had  loved  her  long ; 

She  said,  Love  should  have  no  wrong. 

Corydon  would  kiss  her  then ; 

She  said,  "  Maids  must  kiss  no  men 
Till  they  did  for  good  and  all :  " 

Then  she  made  the  shepherd  call 
All  the  heavens  to  witness  truth, 

"  Never  loved  a  truer  youth !  " 

Thus,  with  many  a  pretty  oath, 

Yea  and  nay,  and  faith  and  troth, 
Such  as  silly  shepherds  use 

When  they  will  not  love  abuse, 
Love,  which  had  been  long  deluded, 
Was  with  kisses  sweet  concluded ; 

And  Phillida,  with  garlands  gay, 
Was  made  the  lady  of  the  May. 

NICHOLAS  BRETON. 


30  A   MORN  OF  MAY. 

THE  RETURN  OF  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

BORNE  on  the  warm  wing  of  the  western  gale, 

How  tremulously  low  is  heard  to  float, 
Through  the  green  budding  thorns  that  fringe  the 
vale, 

The  early  nightingale's  prelusive  note. 
'Tis  Hope's  instinctive  power  that,  through  the  grove 

Tells  how  benignant  heaven  revives  the  earth ; 
'Tis  the  soft  voice  of  young  and  timid  love 

That  calls  these  melting  sounds  of  sweetness  forth. 
With  transport,  once,  sweet  bird,  I  hailed  thy  lay, 

And  bade  thee  welcome  to  our  shades  again, 
To  charm  the  wandering  poet's  pensive  way, 

And  soothe  the  solitary  lover's  pain  ; 
But  now !  —  such  evils  in  my  lot  combine, 
As  shut  my  languid  sense  to  Hope's  dear  voice  and 
thine. 

MRS.  CHARLOTTE  [TURNER]  SMITH. 


A   MORN  OF  MAY. 

ALL   the   clouds   about   the   sun   lay  up  in  golden 

creases, 
(Merry  rings  the  maiden's  voice  that  sings  at  dawn 

of  day;) 
Lambkins  woke    and   skipped   around  to  dry  their 

dewy  fleeces, 
So  sweetly  as  she  caroled,  all  on  a  morn  of  May. 


A  MORN-  OF  MAY.  31 

Quoth  the  Sergeant,  "  Here  I'll  halt ;  here's  wine  of 

joy  for  drinking ; 
To  my  heart  she  sets  her  hand,  and  in  the  strings 

doth  play  ; 

All  among  the  daffodils,  and  fairer  to  my  thinking, 
And  fresh  as  milk  and  roses,  she  sits  this  morn  of 

May." 

Quoth   the    Sergeant,  "Work   is  work,  but  any  ye 

might  make  me, 

If  I  worked  for  you,  dear  lass,  I'd  count  my  holiday. 
I'm  your  slave  for  good  and  all,  an'  if  ye  will  but 

take  me, 
So  sweetly  as  ye  carol  upon  this  morn  of  May." 


"Medals  count  for  worth,"  quoth  she,  "and  scars 

are  worn  for  honor ; 

But  a  slave  an'  if  ye  be,  kind  wooer,  go  your  way." 
All  the  nodding  daffodils  woke  up  and  laughed  upon 

her. 
O !  sweetly  did  she  carol,  all  on  that  morn  of  May. 

Gladsome  leaves  upon  the  bough,  they  fluttered  fast 

and  faster, 
Fretting  brook,  till  he  would  speak,  did  chide  the 

dull  delay ; 
"  Beauty !  when  I  said  a  slave,  I  think  I  meant  a 

master ; 
So  sweetly  as  ye  carol  all  on  this  morn  of  May. 


32  MAY. 

"  Lass,  I  love  you  !     Love  is  strong,  and  some  men's 

hearts  are  tender." 
Far  she  sought  o'er  wood  and  wold,  but  found  not 

aught  to  say ; 
Mounting  lark  nor  mantling  cloud  would  any  counsel 

render, 
Though  sweetly  she  had  caroled  upon  that  morn  of 

May. 

Shy,  she  sought  the  wooer's  face,  and  deemed  the 

wooing  mended ; 
Proper  man  he  was,  good  sooth,  and  one  would  have 

his  way : 
So  the  lass  was  made  a  wife,  and  so  the  song  was 

ended. 

O !  sweetly  did  she  carol  all  on  that  morn  of  May. 

JEAN  INGELOW. 


MAY. 

NOT  the  word,  but  the  soul  of  the  thing ! 

Not  the  name,  but  the  spirit  of  spring ! 

And  so,  at  morning  early, 

Through  hedgerows  fresh  and  pearly, 
Bedecked  with  hawthorn  branches 
And  apple  blossoms  gay, 
Her  golden  hair  around  her, 

As  if  some  god  had  crowned  her, 
Across  the  dewy  woodland 
Comes  dancing  in  the  May. 


MAY  MEMORIES.  33 

O  Spirit  of  hope  and  of  truth ! 
O  Spirit  of  beauty  and  youth ! 
Thine  still  the  olden  glory ; 
Thine  still  the  song  and  story 

Of  joyous  lads  and  lasses, 

Of  birds  upon  the  spray, 
Of  perfumed  airs  a-blowing, 
Of  green  things  glad  with  growing, 

Of  all  the  world  grown  young  again 

To  welcome  in  the  May. 

MRS.  MARY  ELIZABETH^MCGRATH]  BLAKE. 


MA  Y  MEMORIES. 

THE  spring  was  very  glad  upon  the  hills ; 

The  sweet  pale  wind-flowers  waited  in  the  grass ; 

And  the  white  lilies,  in  the  river's  glass, 
Floated  and  fell,  with  the  delight  that  fills 
The  Maytime.  So  I  stood  upon  the  sills 

Of  Faerie  (for  such  to  me  the  wood 

And  all  the  glamours  folded  in  its  flood 
Of  greenery  were),  thinking  the  joy,  that  kills 
March-sadness  in  the  flowers,  might  make  me  whole. 

But,  as  I  went,  the  crocus-flames  did  borrow 
White  lights  and  sad,  as  sombre  as  my  soul ; 

Ay  me  (the  linnet  sang)  sweet  love,  sweet  sorrow  ! 

A  golden  evening  and  a  sad  to-morrow ! 
Spring  could  not  hold  from  mocking  at  my  dole. 


34  MAY  MEMORIES. 

Life  unfulfilled  !     The  windy  scents  that  shook 
The  pink-blown  glory  of  the  apple  trees, 
The  surge  of  song  that  hung  upon  the  breeze, 
The  pale  eyes  of  the  primrose-stars,  that  took 
Faint  heart  to  peer  into  the  painted  book 

Flower-writ  by  spring  upon  the  wide-waved  leas ; 
These  all  made  moan  of  my  dis-ease  : 
And  as  I  pulled  the  cresses  in  the  brook, 
The  thin  slow  water  broke  against  my  hand, 

With  some  faint  cadence  of  blithe  murmuring 
Broken  to  sadness.     Over  all  the  land, 
As  I  drew  near,  the  linnets  ceased  their  song, 

Saying  (meseemed),  "  What  wight  goes    thus  in 

spring, 
Songless  and  sad,  the  dreamy  day  along  ? " 

My  feet  turned  back  into  the  well-worn  ways, 

Hollowed  between  the  tree-marge  and  the  rill ; 

And  as  I  went,  old  memories  did  fill 
My  soul  with  longing  for  the  bygone  days. 
The   lush   scents  from  the   grey-pearled   hawthorn 
maze, 

The  birds'  and  breezes'  babble  and  the  stream's 

Brought  back  to  me  the  songs  I  made  in  dreams, 
In  the  old  days  long  dead ;  the  bright  sweet  lays, 
Hymning  high  valor  in  the  world's  despite ; 

The  long  untroubled  lapses  of  swift  song, 
Brimming  with  ecstacy  the  luminous  night, 

As  a  thrush,  piping,  fills  it ;  sweet  and  strong 
And  pure  as  ripples  of  the  fresh  sun's  light, 

Filling  the  glad  green  glades  and  aisles  along. 


A   MAY  SONG.  35 

There  walked  for  me  along  the  flower-hung  glades 

The  shadowy  figures  of  the  world  of  song 

Of  my  pure  youth,  a  white  and  rosy  throng 
Of  fair  tall  queens  and  lily-drooping  maids, 
Shadowing  pink  cheeks  with  hyacinthine  .braids 

And  feathered  gold  of  many-glancing  locks. 

The  mailed  knights  clashed  together  in  the  shocks 
Of  clamorous  war ;  and  through  the  spangled  shades 
The  mystic  echoes  of  old  questing  went. 

There  was  no  thing  in  all  that  dream  untold 
For  me,  upon  the  woods  with  hawthorn  sprent^ 

Of  the  old  life  ;  and  in  the  primrose-gold, 
The  new  came  back  to  me  with  dreariment, 

In  memories  of  the  love  that  long  lies  cold. 

JOHN  PAYNE. 


A   MA  Y  SONG. 

THE    CALL. 

COME  away  !  come  away  ! 

The  sea  is  blue,  and  the  sky  is  blue, 
The  woods  are  green,  and  the  fields  are  green, 
The  golden  sun  and  the  silvery  sheen, 

They  call  and  call  for  you. 
The  waves  on  the  shore  are  playing,  playing, 
The  flowers  in  the  breeze  are  swaying,  swaying, 
The  whole  wide  world  is  out  a-Maying 
To-day,  to-day. 


36  A   MA  Y  SONG. 

Come  away !  come  away  ! 

The  sea  is  song,  and  the  sky  is  song, 
Music  is  here,  and  music  is  there, 
And  life  and  love  are  everywhere, 

Singing  the  whole  day  long ! 
The  tide  on  the  beach  is  swaying,  swaying, 
The  sun  with  the  clouds  is  playing,  playing, 
And  life  and  love  are  gone  a-Maying 

To-day,  to-day. 

THE   ANSWER. 

I  must  stay,  I  must  stay ; 

The  song  of  the  sea  is  not  for  me, 
Nor  golden  bowers  of  cowslip  flowers 
Nor  vision  bright  of  sunbeam  showers; 

No  fresh  green  spring  I  see, 
No  fragrant  breeze  is  round  me  playing, 
No  glorious  ocean  tide  is  swaying, 
Yet  my  world,  too,  is  gone  a-Maying 

To-day,  to-day. 

Let  me  stay !  let  me  stay ! 

There  is  music  here,  as  everywhere ; 
And  sky  pale  blue,  and  sunshine  too ; 
For  eyes  that  love  to  read  life  true 

Love  seeth  all  things  fair. 
Like  meadow  flowers  in  breezes  swaying, 
All  radiant  hopes  are  round  me  playing, 
My  very  heart  is  out  a-Maying 

To-day,  to-day ! 
GENEVIEVE  MARY  IRONS. 


MAY  EVENING.  37 

MAY  EVENING. 

THE  breath  of  springtime  at  this  twilight  hour 
Comes  through  the  gathering  glooms, 

And  bears  the  stolen  sweets  of  many  a  flower 
Into  my  silent  rooms. 

Where  hast  thou  wandered,  gentle  gale,  to  find 

The  perfumes  thou  dost  bring  ? 
By  brooks,  that  through  the  wakening  meadows  wind, 

Or  brink  of  rushy  spring  ? 

Or  woodside,  where,  in  little  companies, 

The  early  wild  flowers  rise, 
Or  sheltered  lawn,  where,  mid  encircling  trees, 

May's  warmest  sunshine  lies  ? 

Now  sleeps  the  hummingbird,  that,  in  the  sun, 
Wandered  from  bloom  to  bloom  ; 

Now,  too,  the  weary  bee,  his  day's  work  done, 
Rests  in  his  waxen  room. 

Now  every  hovering  insect  to  his  place 

Beneath  the  leaves  hath  flown  ; 
And,  through  the  long,  night  hours,  the  flowery  race 

Are  left  to  thee  alone. 

O'er  the  pale  blossoms  of  the  sassafras 

And  o'er  the  spice-bush  spray, 
Among  the  opening  buds,  thy  breathings  pass, 

And  come  embalmed  away. 
•         •         •         •         •         •         .         •         .         . 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


38  MAY, 

RE- A  WAKENING. 

WITHIN  a  spot  where  slept  the  silent  dead, 

I  wandered  once  when  spring  had  kissed  the  earth, 

And  set  around  its  breast  an  emerald  girth 
Of  grass,  entangling  roses  white  and  red ; 
Among  the  leafy  branches  overhead 

The  mating  robins  twittered  in  their  mirth ; 

All  Nature  seemed  rejoicing  in  new  birth 
Beneath  the  canopy  the  blue  skies  spread  : 
And  as  I  sat  beside  one  mossy  stone 

Kissed  by  a  hundred  suns  of  summer  skies, 
A  sudden  joy  came  to  my  heart,  alone 

Among  those  graves,  to  think  the  dead  shall  rise 
In  God's  eternal  spring  when  sounds  are  blown 

On  angels'  instruments  in  Paradise  ! 

FRANK  DEMPSTER  SHERMAN. 


MAY. 

HARK  !     The  sea-faring  wild-fowl  loud  proclaim 

My  coming,  and  the  swarming  of  the  bees. 
These  are  my  heralds,  and  behold !  my  name 

Is  written  in  blossoms  on  the  hawthorn-trees. 

I  tell  the  mariner  when  to  sail  the  seas : 
I  waft  o'er  all  the  land  from  far  away 

The  breath  and  bloom  of  the  Hesperides, 
My  birthplace.     I  am  Maia.     I  am  May. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 
Calendar. 


MAY  TIME.  39 

MOONLIGHT  IN  MA  Y. 

THANKS  !  for  I  understand  you,  happy  Night ! 

And  smile  with  you  at  all  that  made  me  sad, 

Drawn  unawares  beyond  all  griefs  I  had 
Into  the  truthfulness  of  clear  moonlight, 
Before  whose  frankness  I  can  banish  quite 

The  old  forlorn  endeavor  to  be  glad, 
And  carelessly  stand  listening  as  I  please 

To  the  low  rustle  on  the  sparkling  shore 
Of  conscious  waves,  that,  rippling  at  their  ease, 

Outrun  the  light  and  lead  it  on  before  ; 
Or  to  the  murmur  of  the  moonlit  trees, 

Whose  time  of  waiting  and  reserve  is  o'er, 
Whom  spring  has  taught  to  captivate  the  breeze, 

And  charm  the  nights  made  musical  once  more. 
ROBERT  KELLEY  WEEKS. 


MAY  TIME. 

YES,  it  is  May !   though   not  that   the   young  leaf 

pushes  its  velvet 
Out  of  the  sheath,  that  the  stubbornest  sprays  are 

beginning  to  bourgeon, 
Larks  responding  aloft  to  the  mellow  flute  of   the 

bluebird, 
Nor  that  song  and  sunshine  and  odors  of  life  im- 

mingled 
Even  as  wines  in  a  cup ;   but  that   May,  with  her 

delicate  philtres 


40  MAY  TIME. 

Drenches  the  veins  and  the  valves  of  the  heart,  a 

double  possession, 
Touching  the  sleepy  sense  with   sweet,  irresistible 

languor, 
Piercing,  in  turn,  the  languor  with   flame  :    as  the 

Spirit  requickened 
Stirred   in   the  womb   of   the   world,  foreboding   a 

birth  and  a  being ! 

Who  can  hide  from  her  magic,  break  her  insensible 

thraldom, 
Clothing  the  wings  of  eager  delight  as  with  plumage 

of  trouble  ? 
Sweeter,  perchance,  the  embryo  spring,  forerunner 

of  April, 
When  on  banks  that  slope  to  the  south  the  saxifrage 

wakens, 
When,  beside  the  dentils  of  frost  that  cornice  the 

roadside, 
Weeds  are  a  promise,  and  woods  betray  the  trailing 

arbutus. 
Once  is  the  sudden  miracle  seen,  the  truth  and  its 

rapture 
Felt,  and  the  pulse  of  the  possible  May  is  throbbing 

already. 
Thus  unto  me,  a  boy,  the  clod  that  was  warm  in  the 

sunshine, 
Murmurs  of  thaw,  and  imagined  hurry  of  growth  in 

the  herbage, 
Airs  from  over  the  southern  hills  —  and  something 

within  me 


SONG   OP    THE  PRINCESS  MAY.  41 

Catching  a  deeper  sign   from  these  than  ever  the 

senses  — 

Came  as  a  call :  I  awoke,  and  heard,  and  endeav- 
ored to  answer. 
Whence  should  fall  in  my  lap  the  sweet,  impossible 

marvel  ? 
When  would  the  silver  fay  appear  from  the  willowy 

thicket  ? 
When  from  the  yielding  rock  the  gnome  with   his 

basket  of  jewels  ? 
"When,  ah  when  ? "  I  cried  on  the  steepest  perch  of 

the  hillside 
Standing  with  arms  outspread,  and  waiting  a  wind 

that  should  bear  me 
Over  the  apple-tree  tops  and  over  the  farms  of  the 

valley. 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


SONG   OF  THE  PRINCESS  MAY. 

MARCH  and  April  go  your  way  ! 
You  have  had  your  fitful  day  ; 
Wind  and  shower,  and  snow  and  sleet, 
Make  wet  walking  for  my  feet, 

For  I  come  unsandaled  down 
From  the  hillsides  bare  and  brown ; 
But  wherever  I  do  tread 
There  I  leave  a  little  thread 


42  IN  THE 

Of  bright  emerald,  softly  set 
Like  a  jewel  in  the  wet ; 
And  I  make  the  peach-buds  turn 
Pink  and  white,  until  they  burn 

Rosy  red  within  their  cells  ; 
Then  I  set  the  blooming  bells 
Of  the  flowery  alder  ringing, 
And  the  apple  blossoms  swinging 

In  a  shower  of  rosy  snow 
As  I  come  and  as  I  go 
On  my  gay  and  jocund  way, 
'I,  the  merry  Princess  May. 

NORA  PERRY. 


IN  THE  SPRLVG. 

IT  is  good  to  be  young  in  the  spring,  but  to  breathe, 

but  to  be, 
When  the  woods  are  tumultuous  with   song,  the 

leaf  freshly  unfurled, 
To  break  into  joy  as  the  blossom  breaks  forth  of 

the  tree, 

In   the   on-coming   tide  which    is    lightening   the 
heart  of  the  world. 

Comes  a  time  when  the  pulse   of   the   season   has 

risen  still  higher, 

When  the  crown  of  the  year  is  of  May,  but  not 
yet  of  the  rose, 


IN  THE  SPRING.  43 

When  the  trees  through  a  mist  of  soft  leaves  seem 

to  gladly  respire 

The  air  that  is  balm,  and  to  drink  of   the   sun- 
shine that  glows ; 

When  the  lilac  still  blushes,  the  lilies  lie  folded  be- 
neath, 
When  the  broom   and   laburnum   are    tossing  or 

shedding  their  gold, 
And  the  hand  of  the  bountiful  Giver  o'er  meadow 

and  heath, 

In  gorse  and  in  kingcup  is  scattering  riches  un- 
told; 

When   the   moist   living  green   of   the   nethermost 

boughs  of  the  elm 
Rises  up  as  a  verdurous  breath,  and  a  robe  seems 

to  cling 
Round  the  boles  of  the  birch,  that  show  fair  through 

the  tremulous  film, 

As   the    silvery  limbs  of  a  Dryad   in  vesture   of 
spring. 

When  the  larch  in  its  youth,  and  the  king  of   the 

forest  discrowned, 

The  garlanded  age  of  the  thorn,  and  the  succu- 
lent weed 
Born  in  yesterday's  shower  —  all  things  that   have 

root  in  the  ground 
Are  alive  and  abloom  in  the  sun,  from  the  oak  to 

the  reed. 

EMILY  [DAVIS]  PFEIFFER. 


44  LOOK  IIO IV  IN  MAY. 

MAY. 

A  RUSH  last  night  of  pinions  sweeping  by, 
And  Winter  passed  with  a  grim  retinue  ! 
He  holds  his  court  where  arctic  skies  imbue 

The  flashing  snows  with  tropic  brilliancy, 

And  orange  morns  with  crimson  sunsets  vie. 
The  wizard  king  has  left  his  daughters  three, 
And  grants  to  each  awhile  the  regency ; 

His   daughters   three,  like   those   our  Shakespeare 
drew. 

Fierce  are  the  eyes  of  March,  as  Goneril's  eyne ; 
April  like  Regan,  falser  is  than  fair ; 

True  as  Cordelia's  smiles,  May's  glances  shine ; 
Ermine  he  left  with  those,  and  jewels  rare, 

But  to  his  youngest,  May,  gives  power  to  free 

The  flowers  they  leave  in  drear  captivity. 

ANNIE  LEUTHAL  SMITH. 


LOOK  HOW  IN  MAY. 

LOOK  how  in  May  the  rose 
At  sulphur's  azure  fumes, 
In  a  short  space  her  crimson  blush  doth  lose, 
And,  all  amazed,  a  pallid  white  assumes. 
So  time  our  best  consumes, 
Makes  youth  and  beauty  pass, 
And  what  was  pride  turns  Horror  in  our  glass. 

WILLIAM  DRUMMONO. 


MA  Y.  45 

MAY. 

How  softly  comes  the  breath  of  bloom 

From  quiet  garden  closes  ! 
And,  blended  in  a  rare  perfume, 

The  royal  scent  of  roses ! 
How  tender  is  the  touch  of  May 

While  gentle  winds  are  blowing, 
And  in  a  sweet  yet  silent  way, 

All  sylvan  things  are  growing. 

How  brilliant  is  the  morning  dew 

Amid  the  fields  of  clover ! 
Beneath  a  stainless  arch  of  blue 

The  mock-bird  is  a  rover ; 
His  songs  are  echoed  o'er  the  hills, 

Their  boon  of  music  bringing, 
Till  all  the  land  with  wonder  fills 

To  hear  his  rapturous  singing. 

How  gracious  is  the  light  that  gleams 

Across  the  dancing  billows, 
Or  with  a  chastened  splendor  beams 

Above  the  drooping  willows ! 
How  fair  are  May's  benignant  feet 

O'er  rugged  vales  and  mountains, 
And  how  her  magic  pulses  beat 

Beside  the  brooks  and  fountains ! 

What  sudden  fervor  thrills  her  blood, 
Through  grove  or  garden  straying, 


46  SPRING. 

To  linger  o'er  some  tardy  bud, 

And  chide  its  long  delaying ! 
What  pure  contentment  fills  her  breast, 

Through  thick-leaved  forests  roaming, 
To  find  the  peaceful  birds  at  rest 

Beneath  the  dews  of  gloaming ! 

What  month  so  musical  and  bright, 

So  rife  with  vernal  glory, 
All  garmented  in  air  and  light, 

Like  some  Arcadian  story ! 
Oh  !  fragrant  is  the  breath  of  May 

In  tranquil  garden  closes, 
And  soft  yet  regal  is  her  sway 

Among  the  springtide  roses. 

WILLIAM  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 


SPRING. 

SPRING,  the  sweet  spring,  is  the  year's  pleasant  king 
Then  blooms  each  thing,  then  maids  dance  in  ring, 
Cold  doth  not  sting,  the  pretty  birds  do  sing, 
Cuckoo,  jug,  jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo. 

The  palm  and  may  make  country  houses  gay, 
Lambs  frisk  and  play,  the  shepherds  pipe  all  day, 
And,  hear  we  aye,  birds  tune  their  pretty  lay, 
Cuckoo,  jug,  jug,  pu-wee,  to-witta-woo. 


SWEET  LAGGARD,   COME.  47 

The  fields  breathe  sweet,  the  daisies  kiss  our  feet, 
Young  lovers  meet,  old  wives  a  sunning  sit ; 
In  every  street,  these  tunes  our  ears  do  greet, 
Cuckoo,  jug,  jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo. 
Spring,  the  sweet  spring. 

THOMAS  NASH. 
Summer's  Last  Will  and  Testament. 


SWEET  LAGGARD,    COME. 

SWEET  laggard,  come  !  and  list  the  drowsy  chime 
Of  happy  bees,  'neath  umbrage  of  the  lime  : 
The  Spring  is  here,  come  thou  and  be  my  Spring ! 
The  trees  put  on  their  leaves  while  west  winds  sing, 
Do  thou  put  on  the  love  my  heart  doth  bring. 

Sweet  laggard,  come  !     Waste  not  the  vernal  time, 
Enjoy  the  breath  of  Love's  delicious  prime. 
The  Spring  is  here,  come  thou  and  be  my  Spring ! 
Sweet  laggard,  come ! 

The  golden  wren  doth  like  a  blossom  swing, 
And  hark  !  the  curlews  clamor  on  the  wing. 
Sweet  laggard,  come  !  and  list  thy  lover's  rhyme, 
As  up  the  starry  ways  of  love  we  climb, 
Thou  queen  of  all  my  song,  and  I  thy  king. 

Sweet  laggard,  come ! 
WILLIAM  WILSEY  MAI-TIN. 


48  MA  Y. 

WHEN  MAY  FOLLOWS. 

.  .  .  AFTER  April,  when  May  follows, 
And  the  white-throat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows, 
Hark  !  where  my  blossomed  pear  tree  in  the  hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms  and  dewdrops,  at  the  bent  spray's  edge, 
That's  the  wise  thrush ;  he  sings  each  song  twice 

over, 

Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rapture  ! 
And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew, 
All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


MAY. 

WOULD  that  thou  couldst  last  for  aye, 

Merry,  ever-merry  May ! 

Made  of  sun-gleams,  shade  and  showers, 

Bursting  buds,  and  breathing  flowers ! 

Dripping-locked,  and  rosy-vested, 

Violet  slippered,  rainbow-crested ; 

Girdled  with  the  eglantine, 

Festooned  with  the  dewy  vine  : 

Merry,  ever-merry  May, 

Would  that  thou  couldst  last  for  aye  ! 

WILLIAM  D.  GALLAGHER. 


MA  Y  IX   THE  SWAN  WOODS.  49 

MA  Y  IN  THE  SWAN  WOODS. 

NOT  as  where  swoons  the  tranced  lark 

Over  our  dewy  mother  isle, 

V\"hen  May  exiles  the  warming  dark 

V\"ith  one  intoxicating  smile  ; 

Not  as  where  hawthorn  snows  deride 

December's  coverlet  of  rime, 

And  the  lush  flowers  conspire  to  hide 

The  brand  of  earth's  primeval  crime  ; 

"Where  hangs  along  each  lapsing  stream,  • 

As  myrrh  o'er  some  cathedral  floor, 

The  golden  crocus'  heavy  steam, 

Each  minute  richer  than  before ; 

\Yhere  song  and  odor  bribe  the  hours, 

Descendest  thou,  O  May !  in  this  bleak  clime  of  ours. 

Some  pallid  power  instead  of  thee, 

Sings  through  morn's  cage  of  golden  wire 

A  doleful  ditty  fitfully, 

Strains  which  depress  and  swift  expire. 

I  look  into  the  dewless  air, 

The  sunshafts  fall,  bright-barbed,  around ; 

In  the  dead  sky  the  branches  bare 

Stand,  corpse-like,  with  the  sunshine  crowned. 

I  thirst,  and  find  not  by  the  brook 

The  savor  of  the  sappy  grass, 

Its  sifting  waters  have  not  shook 

One  flower-bell  through  the  vaulted  pass ; 

Swollen  with  snow,  its  languid  sheet 

Tumbles  in  sullen  curves  beside  the  maple's  feet. 


50 

Reclined  in  winter's  magic  trance, 
Yon  rock  o'erlooks  the  shaded  hill, 
Musing  with  stony  countenance 
Upon  its  last  year's  garlands  still. 
In  whistling  shreds  around  its  brow, 
They  wail  when  cuffs  the  hardy  wind, 
Stung  with  the  torture  of  the  snow, 
By  Love  untutored  to  be  kind. 
Yet,  where  the  uncertain  rays  repose 
All  day  upon  the  mellowing  bank, 
Through  the  sere  twigs  there  faintly  shows 
Spring's  vanguard,  marching  rank  on  rank. 
Like  elfin  sworders,  on  they  press, 
Their  green  blades  drawn  in  dauntless  files, 
Gilding  the  dreary  duskiness, 

Till,  championed,  May  exults  and  pays  them  back 
in  smiles ! 


Wandering  in  the  crackling  wood, 

The  songless  boughs  repel  my  feet, 

Not  loving  mortal  should  intrude, 

To  spy  their  winter-long  defeat. 

The  dwarf  oak  clutches  at  me  oft, 

With  skinny  leaves  which  seem  like  hands ; 

And  round  me,  trailed  o'er  mosses  soft, 

The  vines  involve  their  twisted  bands. 

The  robin  from  the  granite  wall 

Clucks  to  the  long  delaying  choir ; 

And  the  thawed  snake  uncoils  to  crawl, 

And  bask  his  dappled  coat  of  fire. 


TO    THE  DANDELION.  5  I 

The  snake  unlocks  his  slimy  jaws, 

To  hiss  me  forth  from  his  retreat  ; 

And  gaffer  robin  maketh  pause 

To  bid  me  from  the  wood,  till  now  his  silent  seat. 

THOMAS  GOLD  APPLETON. 


TO   THE  DANDELION. 

DEAR   common   flower,  that  grow'st  beside   the 

way, 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold, 

First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
Which  children  pluck,  and,  full  of  pride  uphold, 

High-hearted  buccaneers,  o'erjoyed  that  they 
An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found, 
\Yhich  not  the  rich  earth's  ample  round 

May  match  in  wealth,  thou  art  more  dear  to  me 

Than  all  the  prouder  summer  blooms  may  be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Spanish  prow 
Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas, 

Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease ; 

'Tis  the  Spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters  now 
To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand, 
Though  most  hearts  never  understand 

To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 

The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye. 


52  TO    THE  DANDELION. 

Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy ; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime ; 

The  eyes  thou  givest  me 
Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  or  time : 

Not  in  mid-June  the  golden-cuirassed  bee 
Feels  a  more  summer-like  warm  ravishment 
In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent, 

His  fragrant  Sybaris,  than  I,  when  first 

From  the  dark  green  :hy  yellow  circles  burst. 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  on  the  grass, 
Of  meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 

Where,  as  the  breezes  pass, 
The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways, 

Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy  mass, 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind,  —  of  waters  blue 
That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 

Some  woodland  gap,  —  and  of  a  sky  above 
Where  one  white  cloud  like  a  stray  lamb  doth  move. 

My  childhood's  earliest  thoughts  are  linked  with 

thee  ; 
The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's  song, 

Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long, 

And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety, 
Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 
With  news  from  heaven,  which  he  could  bring 

Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears 

When  birds  and  flowers  and  I  were  happy  peers. 


SPRING.  53 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  Nature  seem, 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art ! 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 

Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam 
Of  heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret  show, 
Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 

And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom  look 

On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


SPRING. 

THE  soote '  season  that  bud  and  bloom  forth  brings 

With  green  hath  clad  the  hill,  and  eke  the  vale ; 
The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she  sings  ; 

The  turtle  to  her  make 2  hath  told  her  tale. 
Summer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springs, 

The  hart  hath  hung  his  old  head  on  the  pale ; 
The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  coat  he  flings ; 

The  fishes  flete  with  new  repaired  scale  ; 
The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  slings ; 

The  swift  swallow  pursueth  the  flies  smale ; 
The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mings ; 3 

Winter  is  worn  that  was  the  flowers'  bale. 
And  thus  I  see  among  these  pleasant  things 
Each  care  decays,  and  yet  my  sorrow  springs ! 

HENRY  HOWARD. 

Earl  of  Sumy. 
1  Sweet.  2  Mate.  3  Mixes. 


54  MA  Y. 

IV HY  SHOULD  MA  Y  REMEMBER. 

WHY  should  May  remember 

March,  if  March  forget 
The  days  that  began  with  December, 

The  nights  that  a  frost  could  fret  ? 

All  their  griefs  are  done  with 

Now  the  bright  months  bless 
Fit  souls  to  rejoice  in  the  sun  with, 

Fit  heads  for  the  wind's  caress ; 

Souls  of  children  quickening 

\Yith  the  whole  world's  mirth, 
Heads  closelier  than  field-flowers  thickening 

That  crowd  and  illuminate  earth, 

Now  that  May's  call  musters 

Files  of  baby  bands 
To  marshal  in  joyfuller  clusters 

Than  the  flowers  that  encumber  their  hands. 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 
A  Dark  Month. 


MAY. 

ALL  maiden  lives  that  waned  in  their  young  prime, 
From  the  first  throbbing  of  the  heart  of  Time, 
Re-live,  I  dream,  in  May's  mysterious  grace, 
Sing  through  her  birds,  and  blossom  in  her  face. 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE. 


MAY  MORNING.  55 

MA  Y  MORNING. 

WARM,  wild,  rainy  wind,  blowing  fitfully, 

Stirring  dreamy  breakers  on  the  slumberous  May  sea, 

What  shall  fail  to  answer  thee  ?     What  thing  shall 

withstand 
The  spell  of   thine  enchantment,  flowing  over  sea 

and  land  ? 

All  along  the  swamp-edge  in  the  rain  I  go ; 

All  about  my  head  thou  the  loosened  locks  doth 

blow ; 

Like  the  German  goose-girl  in  the  fairy  tale, 
I  watch  across  the  shining  pool  my  flock  of  ducks 

that  sail. 

Redly  gleam  the  rose-haws,  dripping  with  the  wet, 
Fruit  of  sober  autumn,  glowing  crimson  yet ; 
Slender  swords  of  iris  leaves  cut  the  water  clear, 
And    light   green   creeps   the    tender   grass,   thick 
spreading  far  and  near. 

Every  last  year's  stalk  is  set  with  brown  or  golden 

studs ; 
All  the  boughs  of  bayberry  are  thick  with  scented 

buds; 

Islanded  in  turfy  velvet,  where  the  ferns  uncurl, 
Lo !  the  large  white  duck's  egg  glimmers  like  a  pearl ! 

Softly  sing  the  billows,  rushing,  whispering  low, 
Freshly,  O   deliciously,  the  warm,  wild  wind   doth 
blow  3 


56  MAY. 

Plaintive   bleat  of  new-washed  lambs  comes   faint 

from  far  away ; 
And  clearly  cry  the  little  birds,  alert  and  blithe  and 

gay- 

O  happy,  happy  morning !     O  dear,  familiar  place  ! 
O  warm,  sweet  tears  of  heaven,  fast  falling  on  my 

face ! 
O  well-remembered,  rainy  wind,  blow  all  my  care 

away, 
That  I  may  be  a  child  again  this  blissful  morn  of 

May. 

MRS.  CELIA  [LAIGHTON]  THAXTER. 


MAY. 

MAY  is  a  pious  fraud  of  the  almanac, 

A  ghastly  parody  of  real  spring 

Shaped  out  of  snow  and  breathed  with  eastern  wind; 

Or  if,  o'er-confident,  she  trust  the  date, 

And,  with  her  handful  of  anemones, 

Herself  as  shivery,  steal  into  the  sun, 

The  season  need  but  turn  his  hour-glass  round, 

And  Winter,  suddenly,  like  crazy  Lear, 

Reels  back,  and  brings  the  dead  May  in  his  arms, 

Her  budding  breasts  and  wan  dislustred  front 

\Yith  frosty  streaks  and  drifts  of  his  white  beard 

All  overblown. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 
Under  t/u-  Willows. 


HEAT.  57 


HEAT. 

HITHER  rolls  the  storm  of  heat; 

I  feel  its  finer  billows  beat 

Like  a  sea  which  me  infolds ; 

Heat  with  viewless  fingers  moulds, 

Swells,  and  mellows,  and  matures, 

Paints,  and  flavors,  and  allures, 

Bird  and  brier  inly  warms, 

Still  enriches  and  transforms, 

Gives  the  reed  and  lily  length, 

Adds  to  oak  and  oxen  strength, 

Transforming  what  it  doth  infold, 

Life  out  of  death,  new  out  of  old, 

Painting  fawns'  and  leopards'  fells, 

Seethes  the  gulf-encrimsoning  shells, 

Fires  gardens  with  a  joyful  blaze 

Of  tulips,  in  the  morning's  rays. 

The  dead  log  touched  bursts  into  leaf, 

The  wheat-blade  whispers  of  the  sheaf. 

What  god  is  this  imperial  Heat, 

Earth's  prime  secret,  sculpture's  seat  ? 

Doth  it  bear  hidden  in  its  heart 

Water-line  patterns  of  all  art  ? 

Is  it  Daedalus  ?  is  it  Love  ? 

Or  walks  in  mask  almighty  Jove, 

And  drops  from  Power's  redundant  horn 

All  seeds  of  beauty  to  be  born  ? 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 
May-Day. 


58  FANTASIE  DE  PRINTEMPS. 

MAY. 

THE  voice  of  one  who  goes  before  to  make 
The  paths  of  June  more  beautiful,  is  thine, 
Sweet  May  !     Without  an  envy  of  her  crown 
And  bridal ;  patient  stringing  emeralds 
And  shining  rubies  for  the  brows  of  birch 
And  maple  ;  flinging  garlands  of  pure  white 
And  pink,  which  to  their  bloom  add  prophecy ; 
Gold  cups  o'erfilling  on  a  thousand  hills 
And  calling  honey-bees ;  out  of  their  sleep 
The  tiny  summer  harpers  with  bright  wings 
Awaking,  teaching  them  their  notes  for  noon ; 
O  May,  sweet- voiced  one,  going  thus  before, 
Forever  June  may  pour  her  warm  red  wine 
Of  life  and  passion,  —  sweeter  days  are  thine  ! 

MRS.  HELEN  MARIA  [FISKE]  [HUNT]  JACKSON. 


FANTASIE  DE  PRINTEMPS. 

IN  the  aisles  of  the  orchard  fair  blossoms  are  drifting, 
The  white  petals  drop  one  by  one, 

And  the  tulip's  pale  stalk  from  the  garden  is  lifting 
A  goblet  of  gems  to  the  sun  ! 

Come  ramble  awhile  through  this  exquisite  weather 

Of  days  that  are  fleet  to  pass, 

When   the  stem  of   the  willow  shoots  out  a  green 
feather, 

And  buttercups  burn  in  the  grass ! 


DARK  SPRING.  59 

When,  pushing  the  soil  from  her  bonny  pink  shoul- 
ders, 

The  clover  glides  forth  to  the  world, 
And   the  fresh  mosses  gleam  on   the   grey  rugged 

boulders, 
With  delicate  May-dew  impearled  ! 

What  vows  to  their  sweethearts  the  gay  robins  utter! 

No  marvel  such  wooers  are  heard ! 
Heigh-ho  !   how  the   bosoms   that   scorn   us  would 

flutter, 
If  man  could  make  love  like  a  bird ! 

EDGAR  FAWCETT. 


DARK  SPRING. 

Now  the  mavis  and  the  merle 
Lavish  their  full  hearts  in  song, 

Peach  and  almond  boughs  unfurl 
White  and  purple  blooms  along 

A  blue  burning  air, 

And  all  is  very  fair. 

But  ah !  the  silence  and  the  sorrow 

I  may  not  borrow 

Any  anodyne  for  grief 

From  the  joy  of  flower  or  leaf, 

No  healing  to  allay  my  pain 

From  the  cool  of  air  and  rain  ; 

Every  sweet  sound  grew  still, 


60  FLED  ARE    THE  FROSTS. 

Every  fair  color  pale, 

When  his  life  began  to  wane ; 

They  may  never  live  again  ! 

A  child's  voice  and  visage  will 

Evermore  about  me  fail. 

Ah !  the  silence  and  the  sorrow ! 

Now  my  listless  feet  will  go 

Laboring  ever  as  in  snow : 

Though  the  year  with  glowing  wine 

Fill  the  living  veins  of  vine  ; 

Though  the  glossy  fig  may  swell, 

And  night  hear  her  Philomel ; 

Though  the  sweet  lemon  blossom  breathe, 

And  fair  Sun  his  falchion  wreathe 

With  crimson  roses  at  his  foot, 

All  is  desolate  and  mute ; 

Dark  to-day,  and  dark  to-morrow, 

Ah  !  the  silence  and  the  sorrow ! 

RODEN  BERKELEY  WJUOTHESLEY  NOEL. 
Love  and  Loss. 


FLED  ARE   THE  FROSTS. 

FLED  are  the  frosts  and  now  the  fields  appear 
Re-clothed  in  fresh  and  verdant  diaper ; 
Thawed  are  the  snows  and  now  the  lusty  spring 
Gives  to  each  mead  a  neat  enameling ; 
The  palms  put  forth  their  gems,  and  every  tree 
Now  swaggers  in  her  leafy  gallantry. 

ROBERT  HEKRICK. 


MAY,  6 1 

MAY. 

SWEET  month  of  Mary,  month  of  May, 
What  pale  pure  flowerets  strew  thy  way ; 
Bellissima ! 

Low  lilies  press  about  thy  feet 
With  violets  changing  kisses  sweet ; 
Dulcissima ! 

While  through  the  snow  that  latest  lingers 
The  Mayflower  thrusts  her  fairy  fingers  ; 
Rubentissima ! 

As  through  the  Virgin's  holy  mood 
Struck  tender  joys  of  motherhood; 
Sanctissima ! 

Even  thy  moon,  so  cold  and  clear, 
Shines  with  a  beauty  half  austere  ; 
Splendissima ! 

While  chill  pure  winds  from  eastern  seas 
Enfold  no  dream  of  tropic  breeze  ; 
Purissima ! 

But,  month  of  Mary,  month  of  May, 
Still  with  our  love  we'll  strew  thy  way ; 
Bellissima ! 

For  O,  sweet  maiden  of  the  year, 
We  cannot  choose  but  hold  thee  dear  ; 
Carissima ! 

MRS.  JANE  [GOODWIN]  AUSTIN. 


62  MAY  AV 


MA  Y  IX  KfXGSTOX. 

OUR  old  colonial  town  is  new  with  May  : 
The  loving  trees  that  clasp  across  the  streets, 
Grow  greener  sleeved  with  bursting  buds  each  day. 
Still  this  year's  May  the  last  year's  May  repeats  ; 
Even  the  old  stone  houses  half  renew 
Their  youth  and  beauty,  as  the  old  trees  do. 

High  over  all,  like  some  divine  desire 
Above  our  lower  thoughts  of  daily  care, 
The  grey,  religious,  heaven-touching  spire 
Adds  to  the  quiet  of  the  springtime  air  ; 
And  over  roofs  the  birds  create  a  sea, 
That  has  no  shore,  of  their  May  melody. 

Down  through  the  lowlands  now  of  lightest  green, 

The  undecided  creek  winds  on  its  way. 

There  the  lithe  willow  bends  with  graceful  mien, 

And  sees  its  likeness  in  the  depths  all  day  ; 

While   in   the   orchards,   flushed  with   May's   warm 

light, 
The  bride-like  fruit-trees  dwell,  attired  in  white. 

But  yonder  loom  the  mountains  old  and  grand, 

That  off,  along  dim  distance,  reach  afar, 

And  high  and  vast,  against  the  sunset  stand, 

A  dreamy  range,  long  and  irregular, 

A  caravan  that  never  passes  by, 

\Yhose  camel-backs  are  laden  with  the  sky. 

HIMRY  ABBEY. 


APPLE  BLOSSOMS.  63 

APPLE  BLOSSOMS. 

THE  apple  trees  with  bloom  are  all  aglow : 

Soft  drifts  of  perfumed  light : 
A  miracle  of  mingled  fire  and  snow : 

A  laugh  of  spring's  delight. 

Their  ranks  of  creamy  splendor  pillow  deep 

The  valleys  pure  repose  ; 
On  mossy  walls,  in  meadow  nooks,  they  heap 

Surges  of  frosted  rose. 

Around  old  homesteads,  clustering  thick,  they  shed 

Their  sweets  to  murmuring  bees, 
And  o'er  hushed  lanes  and  wayside  fountains  spread 

Their  pictured  canopies. 

Green-breasted  knolls  and  forest  edges  wear 

Their  beautiful  array ; 
And  lonesome  graves  are  sheltered,  here  and  there, 

With  their  memorial  spray. 

The  efflorescence  on  unnumbered  boughs 

Pants  with  delicious  breath  ; 
O'er  me  seem  laughing  eyes  and  fair,  smooth  brows, 

And  shapes  too  sweet  for  death. 

Clusters  of  dimpled  faces  float  between 

The  soft,  caressing  plumes, 
And  lovely  creatures  'mong  the  branches  lean, 

Lulled  by  faint,  flower-born  tunes. 


64  /iV  MAY. 

A  rude  wind  blows,  and  as  the  blossoms  fall, 

My  heart  is  borne  away : 
Fainter  and  fainter  tender  voices  call 

Of  my  enamored  May. 

Fainter  and  fainter,  —  oh,  how  strange  it  seems, 

With  so  much  sweetness  fled  ! 
I  go  like  one  who  dreams  within  his  dreams, 
That,  living,  he  is  dead ! 

HORATIO  NELSON  POWERS. 
In  The  Century  Magazine. 


IN  MA  Y. 

SEE  !  the  cautious  oak  at  last, 

Owning  angry  winter  past, 

Spreads  his  smiling  leaves,  —  in  haste, 

Lest  the  roving  woodsman  dread, 

Haply  holding  him  for  dead, 

Plying  horrid  wound  on  wound, 

With  gleaming  axe  should  bear  him  to  the  ground. 

When  with  emulous  blossoms  gay, 

Snowy  chestnut,  snowy  may, 

Laugh  by  every  woodland  way  ; 

Then  the  blushing  lilac  kisses 

His  laburnum's  golden  tresses. 

And,  while  sheepbells  mingle  sweet 

With  the  newborn-lambkin's  bleat, 

Loud  the  pairing  thrushes  sing, 

"  Wintertime  has  turned  to  Spring." 

ALFRED  PERCEVAL  GRAVES. 


IN  BLOSSOM  TIME.  6$ 

IN  BLOSSOM  TIME. 

IT'S  O  my  heart,  my  heart, 

To  be  out  in  the  sun  and  sing ! 
To  sing  and  shout  in  the  fields  about, 

In  the  balm  and  the  blossoming. 

Sing  loud,  O  bird  in  the  tree  ; 

0  bird,  sing  loud  in  the  sky, 

And  honey-bees,  blacken  the  clover  seas: 
There  are  none  of  you  glad  as  I. 

The  leaves  laugh  low  in  the  wind, 

Laugh  low  with  the  wind  at  play  ; 
And  the  odorous  call  of  the  flowers  all 

Entices  my  soul  away  ! 

For  O  but  the  world  is  fair,  is  fair : 

And  O  but  the  world  is  sweet ! 
I  will  out  in  the  gold  of  the  blossoming  mold, 

And  sit  at  the  Master's  feet. 

And  the  love  my  heart  would  speak, 

1  will  fold  in  the  lily's  rim, 

That  the  lips  of  the  blossom,  more  pure  and  meek, 
May  offer  it  up  to  Him. 

Then  sing  in  the  hedgerow  green,  O  thrush, 

O  skylark,  sing  in  the  blue  : 
Sing  loud,  sing  clear,  that  the  King  may  hear, 

And  my  soul  shall  sing  with  you  ! 

INA  DONNA  COOLLKITH. 


66  ON  A    COUNTRY  ROAD. 

ON  A    COUNTRY  ROAD. 

(BALLADE.) 

ALONG  these  low  pleached  lanes,  on  such  a  day, 

So  soft  a  day  as  this,  through  shade  and  sun, 

With  glad  grave  eyes  that  scanned  the  glad  wild 

way, 

And  heart  still  hovering  o'er  a  song  begun, 
And  smile  that  warmed  the  world  with  benison, 
Our  father,  lord  long  since  of  lordly  rhyme, 
Long  since  hath  haply  ridden,  when  the  lime 
Bloomed  broad  above  him,  flowering  where  he  came. 
Because  thy  passage  once  made  warm  this  clime, 
Our  father  Chaucer,  here  we  praise  thy  name. 

Each  year  that  England  clothes  herself  with  May, 
She  takes  thy  likeness  on  her.     Time  hath  spun 
Fresh  raiment  all  in  vain  and  strange  array 
For  earth  and  man's  new  spirit,  fain  to  shun 
Things  past  for  dreams  of  better  to  be  won, 
Through  many  a  century  since  thy  funeral  chime 
Rang,  and  men  deemed  it  death's  most  direful  crime 
To  have  spared  not  thee  for  very  love  or  shame ; 
And  yet,  while   mists  round    last  year's    memories 

climb, 
Our  father  Chaucer,  here  we  praise  thy  name. 

Each  turn  of  the  old  wild  road  whereon  we  stray, 
Meseems,  might  bring  us  face  to  face  with  one 
Whom  seeing  we  could  not   but   give  thanks,  and 
pray 


MA  r.  67 . 

For  England's  love  our  father  and  her  son 
To  speak  with  us  as  once  in  days  long  done 
With  all  men,  sage  and  churl  and  monk  and  mime, 
Who  knew  not  as  we  know  the  soul  sublime 
That  sang  for  song's  love  more  than  lust  of  fame. 
Yet,  though  this  be  not,  yet,  in  happy  time, 
Our  father  Chaucer,  here  we  praise  thy  name. 

ENVOY. 

Friend,  even  as  bees  about  the  flowering  thyme, 
Years  crowd  on  years,  till  hoar  decay  begrime 
Names  once  beloved ;  but,  seeing  the  sun  the  same, 
As  birds  of  autumn  fain  to  praise  the  prime, 
Our  father  Chaucer,  here  we  praise  thy  name. 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 


MAY. 

THEN  came  fair  May,  the  fairest  maid  on  ground, 
Decked  all  with  dainties  of  her  seasons  pride, 
And  throwing  flowers  out  of  her  lap  around : 
Upon  two  brethrens'  shoulders  she  did  ride, 
The  twins  of  Leda,  which  on  either  side 
Supported  her  like  to  their  sovereign  Queen : 
Lord !  how  all  creatures  laughed  when  her  they  spied 
And  leaped  and  danced  as  they  had  ravished  been ! 
And  Cupid's  self  about  her  fluttered  all  in  green. 

EDMUND  SPENSER. 

The  Faerie  Queene. 


68  MAY  GLADA'ESS. 

At  AY.  GROWN  A-COLD. 

O  CERTAINLY,  no  month  this  is  but  May ! 

Sweet  earth  and  sky,  sweet  birds  of  happy  song, 

Do  make  thee  happy  now,  and  thou  art  strong, 
And  many  a  tear  thy  love  shall  wipe  away 
And  make  the  dark  night  merrier  than  the  day, 

Straighten  the  crooked  paths  and  right  the  wrong, 

And  tangle  bliss  so  that  it  tarry  long. 
Go  cry  aloud  the  hope  the  heavens  do  say ! 
Nay,  what  is  this  ?  and  wherefore  lingerest  thou  ? 

Why  sayest  thou  the  sky  is  hard  as  stone  ? 

Why  sayest  thou  the  thrushes  sob  and  moan  ? 
Why  sayest  thou  the  East  tears  bloom  and  bough  ? 
Why  seem  the  sons  of  man  so  hopeless  now  ? 

Thy  love  is  gone,  poor  wretch,  thou  art  alone  ! 

WILLIAM  MORRIS. 


MAY  GLADNESS. 

THE  lark  is  singing  in  the  blinding  sky, 
Hedges  are  white  with  May.     The  bridegroom  sea 
Is  toying  with  the  shore,  his  wedded  bride, 
And,  in  the  fulness  of  his  marriage  joy, 
He  decorates  her  tawny  brow  with  shells, 
Retires  a  space,  to  see  how  fair  she  looks, 
Then  proud,  runs  up  to  kiss  her.     All  is  fair : 
All  glad,  from  grass  to  sun. 

ALEXANDER  SMITH. 
A  Life  Drama. 


IN  MAY.  — MAY,  69 

IN  MA  Y. 

Now,  while  the  long-delaying  ash  assumes 

The  delicate  April-green,  and,  loud  and  clear, 
Through  the  cool,  yellow,  mellow  twilight  glooms, 

The  thrush's  song  enchants  the  captive  ear ; 
Now,  while  a  shower  is  pleasant  in  the  falling, 

Stirring  the  still  perfume  that  wakes  around ; 
Now,  that  doves  mourn,  and  from  the  distance  call- 
ing, 

The  cuckoo  answers,  with  a  sovereign  sound,  — 
Come  with  thy  native  heart,  O  true  and  tried ! 

But  leave  all  books ;  for  what  with  converse  high, 
Flavored  with  Attic  wit,  the  time  shall  glide 

On  smoothly,  as  a  river  floweth  by, 
Or  as  on  stately  pinion,  through  the  grey 
Evening,  the  culver  cuts  his  liquid  way. 

DAVID  GRAY. 

/«  the  Shadows* 


MAY. 

WHO  cares  on  the  land  to  stay, 
Wooing  the  wilful  May ; 

Leave  the  coquette 

To  smile  or  pet 
And  away  to  the  sea,  away ! 

My  beauty,  my  bark  at  sea 

With  the  winds  and  the  wild  clouds  and  me; 


7O  APPLE  BLOSSOMS. 

The  low  shore  soon 
Will  be  down  with  the  moon, 
And  none  on  the  waves  but  we. 

On  !  on  !  with  a  swoop  and  a  swirl, 
High  over  the  clear  waves  curl ; 

Tender  they  prow 

Like  a  fairy  now, 
Make  the  blue  water  bubble  with  pearl. 

Lo  !  yonder,  my  lady,  the  light ! 
Tis  the  last  of  the  land  in  sight ! 

Look  once,  —  and  away ! 

Bows  down  in  the  spray ; 
Lighted  on  by  the  lamps  of  the  night ! 

EDWIN  ARNOLD. 


APPLE  BLOSSOMS. 

HAVE  you  seen  an  apple  orchard  in  the  spring  ? 

In  the  spring? 

An  English  apple  orchard  in  the  spring  ? 
When  the  spreading  trees  are  hoary 
With  their  wealth  of  promise-glory, 
And  the  mavis  pipes  his  story 
In  the  spring ! 

Have  you  plucked  the  apple  blossoms  in  the  spring  ? 
In  the  spring  ? 


APPLE  BLOSSOMS.  7 1 

And  caught  their  subtle  odors  in  the  spring  ? 
Pink  buds  pouting  at  the  light, 
Crumpled  petals  baby-white, 
Just  to  touch  them,  —  a  delight ! 
In  the  spring ! 

Have    you   walked   beneath   the   blossoms    in   the 
spring  ? 

In  the  spring? 

Beneath  the  apple  blossoms  in  the  spring  ? 
When  the  pink  cascades  are  falling, 
And  the  silver  brooklets  brawling, 
And  the  cuckoo  bird  is  calling, 
In  the  spring! 

Have  you  seen  a  merry  bridal  in  the  spring  ? 

In  the  spring? 

In  an  English  apple  county  in  the  spring  ? 
When  the  bride  and  maidens  wear 
Apple  blossoms  in  their  hair, 
Apple  blossoms  everywhere 
In  the  spring? 

If  you  have  not,  then  you  know  not,  in  the  spring, 

In  the  spring ! 

Half  the  color,  beauty,  wonder  of  the  spring. 
No  sight  can  I  remember 
Half  so  precious,  half  so  tender, 
As  the  apple  blossoms  render 
In  the  spring ! 

WILLIAM  WILSEY  MARTIN. 


72  IN  MAY. 

IN  MA  Y. 

THAT  was  a  curlew  calling  overhead, 

That  fine,  clear  whistle  shaken  from  the  clouds : 
See  !  hovering  o'er  the  swamp  with  wings  outspread, 

He  sinks  where  at  its  edge  in  shining  crowds 
The  yellow  violets  dance  as  they  unfold, 
In  the  blithe  spring  wind,  all  their  green  and  gold. 

Blithe  south  wind,  spreading  bloom  upon  the  sea, 
Drawing  about  the  world  this  band  of  haze 

So  softly  delicate,  and  bringing  me 

A  touch  of  balm  that  like  a  blessing  stays ; 

Though  beauty  like  a  dream  bathes  sea  and  land, 

For  the  first  time  Death  holds  me  by  the  hand. 

Yet  none  the  less  the  swallows  weave  above 
Through  the  bright  air  a  web  of  light  and  song, 

And  calling  clear  and  sweet  from  cove  to  cove, 
The  sandpiper,  the  lonely  rocks  among, 

Makes  wistful  music,  and  the  singing  sea 

Sends  its  strong  chorus  upward  solemnly. 

0  Mother  Nature,  infinitely  dear  ! 
Vainly  I  search  the  beauty  of  thy  face, 

Vainly  thy  myriad  voices  charm  my  ear, 

I  cannot  gather  from  thee  any  trace 
Of  God's  intent.     Help  me  to  understand 
Why,  this  sweet  morn,  Death  hoids  me  by  the  hand. 

1  watch  the  waves,  shoulder  to  shoulder  set, 
That  strive  and  vanish  and  are  seen  no  more. 


AS  IT  I- ELL    UPON  A  DAY.  73 

The  earth  is  sown  with  graves  that  we  forget, 
And  races  of  mankind  the  wide  world  o'er 
Rise,  strive,  and  vanish,  leaving  nought  behind, 
Like  changing  waves  swept  by  the  changing  wind. 

"  Hard-hearted,  cold,  and  blind,"  she  answers  me, 
"  Vexing  thy  soul  with  riddles  hard  to  guess ! 

No  waste  of  any  atom  canst  thou  see, 
Nor  make  I  any  gesture  purposeless. 

Lift  thy  dim  eyes  up  to  the  conscious  sky ! 

God  meant  that  rapture  in  the  curlew's  cry. 

"  He  holds  His  whirling  worlds  in  check ;  not  one 
May  from  its  awful  orbit  swerve  aside ; 

Yet  breathes  He  in  this  south  wind,  bids  the  sun 
Wake  the  fair  flowers  He  fashioned,  far  and  wide, 

And  this  strong  pain  thou  canst  not  understand 

Is  but  His  grasp  on  thy  reluctant  hand." 

MRS.  CELIA  [LAIGHTON]  THAXTER. 


AS  IT  FELL    UPON  A   DAY. 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day 

In  the  merry  month  of  May, 
Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade 

Which  a  grove  of  myrtles  made, 
Beasts  did  leap  and  birds  did  sing, 
Trees  did  grow,  and  plants  did  spring, 
Everything  did  banish  moan, 

Save  the  nightingale  alone. 


74  *   LATE  SPRING. 

She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn, 

Leaned  her  breast  uptill  a  thorn, 
And  there  sung  the  dolefulest  ditty, 

That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity : 
Fie,  fie,  fie,  now  would  she  cry ; 
Teru,  Tern,  by  and  by  : 
That,  to  hear  her  so  complain, 

Scarce  I  could  from  tears  refrain  ; 
For  her  griefs,  so  lively  shown, 

Made  me  think  upon  my  own. 

"  Ah,"  thought  I,  "thou  mourn'st  in  vain  ; 

None  takes  pity  on  thy  pain  ! 
Senseless  trees  they  cannot  hear  thee  ; 
Ruthless  beasts  they  will  not  cheer  thee ; 

King  Pandion  he  is  dead ; 
All  thy  friends  are  lapped  in  lead ; 
All  thy  fellow  birds  do  sing, 

Careless  of  thy  sorrowing  : 
Even  so,  poor  bird,  like  thee, 

None  alive  will  pity  me." 

ROBERT  BARNFIELD. 


A    LATE  SPRING. 

THE  spring,  made  dreary  by  incessant  rain, 
Was  well-nigh  gone,  and  not  a  glimpse  appeared 
Of  vernal  loveliness,  but  light-green  turf 
Round  the  deep  bubbling  fountain  in  the  vale, 
Or  by  the  rivulet  on  the  hillside,  near 


A  LATE  SPRING.  75 

Its  cultivated  base,  fronting  the  south, 

\Yhere  in  the  first  warm  rays  of  March  it  sprung 

Amid  dissolving  snow :  save  these  mere  specks 

Of  earliest  verdure,  with  a  few  pale  flowers, 

In  other  years  blowing  soon  as  earth 

Unveils  her  face,  and  a  faint  vermeil  tinge 

On  clumps  of  maple  of  the  softer  kind, 

Was  nothing  visible  to  give  to  May, 

Though  far  advanced,  an  aspect  more  like  hers 

Than  like  November's  universal  gloom. 

All  day  beneath  the  sheltering  hovel  stood 

The  drooping  herd,  or  lingered  near,  to  ask 

The  food  of  winter.     A  few  lonely  birds, 

Of  those  that  in  this  northern  clime  remain 

Throughout  the  year,  and  in  the  dawn  of  spring, 

At  pleasant  noon,  from  their  unknown  retreat 

Come  suddenly  to  view  with  lively  notes, 

Or  those  that  soonest  to  this  clime  return 

From  warmer  regions,  in  thick  groves  were  seen, 

But  with  their  feathers  ruffled,  and  despoiled 

Of  all  their  glossy  lustre,  sitting  mute, 

Or  only  skipping,  with  a  single  chirp, 

In  quest  of  food. 

Long  swollen  in  drenching  rains,  seeds,  germs  and 

buds 

Start  at  the  touch  of  vivifying  beams. 
Moved  by  their  secret  force,  the  vital  lymph 
Diffusive  runs,  and  spreads  o'er  wood  and  field 
A  flood  of  verdure.     Clothed  in  one  short  week, 
Is  naked  Nature  in  her  full  attire. 


76  THE  RHODORA. 

On  the  first  morn,  light  as  an  open  plain 

Is  all  the  woodland,  filled  with  sunbeams,  poured 

Through  the  bare  tips,  on  yellow  leaves  below, 

With  strong  reflection  :  on  the  last,  'tis  dark 

With  full-grown  foliage,  shading  all  within. 

In  one  short  week  the  orchard  buds  and  blooms. 

CARLOS  WILCOX. 
The  Age  of  Benevolence. 


THE  RHODORA. 

IN  May,  when  sea  winds  pierced  our  solitudes, 
I  found  the  fresh  rhodora  in  the  woods, 
Spreading  its  leafless  blooms  in  a  damp  nook, 
To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish  brook. 
The  purple  petals,  fallen  in  the  pool, 
Made  the  black  water  with  their  beauty  gay ; 
Here  might  the  redbird  come  his  plumes  to  cool, 
And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens  his  array. 
Rhodora !  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 
This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  earth  and  sky, 
Tell  them,  dear,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 
Then  beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being : 
Why  thou  wert  there,  O  rival  of  the  rose  ! 
I  never  thought  to  ask,  I  never  knew : 
But,  in  my  simple  ignorance  suppose 
The  selfsame  power  that  brought  me  there  brought 
you. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


APPLE  BLOSSOMS.  77 

APPLE  BLOSSOMS. 

APPLE  blossoms,  budding,  blowing, 

In  the  soft  May  air : 
Cups  with  sunshine  overflowing, 
Flakes  of  fragrance,  drifting,  snowing, 

Showering  everywhere ! 

Fairy  promises,  outgushing 

From  the  happy  trees  ! 
White  souls  unto  love-light  blushing, 
Heavenly  thoughts  to  utterance  rushing, 

Are  not  ye  like  these  ? 

Such  an  overflow  of  sweetness 

Needs  the  heart  of  spring  ; 
In  her  wealth  of  bloom  is  meetness, 
Though  to  the  ripe  fruit's  completeness 

All  she  may  not  bring. 

Words  are  more  than  idle  seeming ; 

Blossoms  of  good  will. 
What  she  would  do,  Love  is  dreaming ; 
What  she  can,  ashamed  of  scheming, 

Cramped  and  stinted  still. 

Apple  blossoms,  billowy  brightness 

On  the  tide  of  May, 

Oh,  to  wear  your  rose-touched  whiteness  ! 
Flushing  into  bloom,  with  lightness 

To  give  life  away  ! 

LUCY  LARCOM. 


78  APPLE  BLOSSOMS. 

A    SNOWFLAKE  IN  MAY. 

(TRIOLET.) 

I  SAW  a  snowflake  in  the  air 

When  smiling  May  had  decked  the  year, 
And  then  'twas  gone,  I  knew  not  where ; 

I  saw  a  snowflake  in  the  air, 
And  thought  perchance  an  angel's  prayer 

Had  fallen  from  some  starry  sphere  ; 
I  saw  a  snowflake  in  the  air 

When  smiling  May  had  decked  the  year. 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


APPLE  BLOSSOMS. 

STORM-TWISTED,  gnarled  bough, 
Bloom  forth  in  beauty  now, 

Spring  breezes  woo  thee  1 
Hush  the  wind's  blustering, 
Wear  thy  fresh  clustering 
Blossoms,  close  mustering, 

Hastening  to  thee ! 

Leaf,  bud,  corolla  fair, 
Spread  in  ambrosial  air, 

Bossy  branch  cover ; 
In  pink  and  white  array, 
Decked  for  thy  bridal  day, 
Reaching  forth  graciously, 

Welcome  thy  lover ! 
MRS.  LOUISA  PARSONS  [STONE]  HOPKINS. 


IN  MA  K  —  MA  Y.  79 

IN  MA  Y. 

Now  that  the  green  hillside  has  quite 
Forgot  that  it  was  ever  white, 
\Yith  quivering  grasses  clothed  upon, 
And  dandelions  invite  the  sun ; 
And  columbines  have  found  a  way 
To  overcome  the  hard  and  grey 
Old  rocks  that  also  feel  the  spring ; 
And  birds  make  love  and  swing  and  sing 
On  boughs  which  were  so  bare  of  late ; 
And  bees  become  importunate  ; 
And  butterflies  are  quite  at  ease 
Upon  the  well-contented  breeze, 
Which  only  is  enough  to  make 
A  shadowy  laughter  on  the  lake  ; 
And  all  the  clouds  that  here  and  there 
Are  floating,  melting  in  the  air, 
Are  such  as  beautify  the  blue  ; 
Now  what  is  worthier,  May,  than  you 
Of  all  my  praise,  of  all  my  love, 
Except  whom  you  remind  me  of  ? 

ROBERT  KELLEY  WEEKS. 


MAY. 

OVER  the  hilltop  and  down  in  the  meadow-grass 
Heaven  like  dew  on  the  waking  earth  lies  ; 

Part  of  it,  dear,  is  the  blue  of  these  violets, 
Best  of  it  all,  I  find  in  your  eyes. 

WILLIS  BOVD  ALLEN. 


80  SONG   TO  MAY. 

SONG   TO  MAY. 

MAY,  queen  of  blossoms 
And  fulfilling  flowers, 

With  what  pretty  music 
Shall  we  charm  the  hours  ? 

Wilt  thou  have  pipe  and  reed, 

Blown  in  the  open  mead  ? 

Or  to  the  lute  give  heed 
In  the  green  bowers  ? 

Thou  hast  no  need  of  us, 

Or  pipe  or  wire, 
Thou  hast  the  golden  bee 

Ripened  with  fire ; 
And  many  thousand  more 
Songsters  that  thee  adore, 
Filling  earth's  grassy  floor 

With  new  desire. 

Thou  hast  thy  mighty  herds, 
Tame,  and  free  livers ; 

Doubt  not,  thy  music  too, 
In  the  deep  rivers  ; 

And  the  whole  plumy  flight, 

Warbling  the  day  and  night; 

Up  at  the  gates  of  light, 
See,  the  lark  quivers ! 

When  with  the  jacinth 
Coy  fountains  are  tressed  j 


A   QUIET  EVE  JN  SPRING.  8 1 

And  for  the  mournful  bird 

Green  woods  are  dressed, 
That  did  for  Tereus  pine  ; 
Then  shall  our  songs  be  thine, 
To  whom  our  hearts  incline  : 

May,  be  thou  blessed ! 

EDWARD  HOVELL-THURLOW. 


A    QUIET  EVE  IN  SPRING. 

Tis  the  quiet  eve  of  a  northern  spring :  the  village 

sleeps  in  the  sun 
That  flames  in  the  west  as  fair  as  when  the  world 

was  new  begun. 
Tired  Labor  lays  his  tools  aside  and  his  cramped 

soul  warms  with  mirth 
As  he  lingers  out  in  the  cool  spring  wind  to  look  on 

the  lovely  earth : 
For  the  crocus  gleams  in  the  garden  plots,  primroses 

shine  on  the  leas, 
And  faintly,  slowly,  like  gathering  flame,  the  green 

tint  gains  on  the  trees. 
The  swallow  has  come  from  the  south  once  more  to 

live  in  his  last  year's  nest, 
For  his  heart,  too,  clings  to  the  olden  things  and  the 

places  his  youth  knew  best : 

The  newborn  bee  is  out  in  the  fields,  —  he  is  labor- 
ing, too,  as  we, 
To  garner  fruit  through  the  sunshine  hours  for  the 

days  he  shall  never  see  ; 


82  MA  Y. 

And  the  heart  of  man,  on  this  eve  of  spring,  is  glad, 

and  he  knows  not  why, 
But  he  feels  that  to  live  is  a  lovely  thing,  though  at 

last  he  must  die. 


J. 

A  Village  Idyll. 


MAY. 

O  LOVE,  this  morn  when  the  sweet  nightingale 

Had  so  long  finished  all  he  had  to  say, 

That  thou  hadst  slept,  and  sleep  had  told  his  tale ; 

And  midst  a  peaceful  dream  had  stolen  away 

In  fragrant  dawning  of  the  first  of  May, 

Didst  thou  see  aught  ?  didst  thou  hear  voices  sing 

Ere  to  the  risen  sun  the  bells  'gan  ring  ? 

For  then  methought  the  Lord  of  Love  went  by 
To  take  possession  of  his  flowery  throne, 
Ringed   round   with   maids,  and   youths,  and   min- 
strelsy ; 

A  little  while  I  sighed  to  find  him  gone, 
A  little  while  the  dawning  was  alone, 
And  the  light  gathered ;  then  I  held  my  breath, 
And  shuddered  at  the  sight  of  Eld  and  Death. 

Alas !  Love  passed  me  in  the  twilight  dun, 
His  music  hushed  the  wakening  ouzel's  song ; 


PICTURES  OF  SPRING.  83 

But  on  these  twain  shone  out  the  golden  sun, 

And   o'er  their  heads   the   brown   birds'  tune  was 

strong, 

As  shivering,  twixt  the  trees  they  stole  along ; 
None  noted  aught  their  noiseless  passing  by, 
The  world  had  quite  forgotten  it  must  die. 

WILLIAM  MORRIS. 
The  Earthly  Paradise. 


PICTURES  OF  SPRING. 

APPLE  blossoms  in  the  orchard, 
Singing  birds  on  every  tree  ; 

Grass  a-growing  in  the  meadows 
Just  as  green  as  green  can  be ; 

Violets  in  shady  places, 

Sweetest  flowers  were  ever  seen ! 
Hosts  of  starry  dandelions, 

"  Drops  of  gold  among  the  green  !  " 

Pale  arbutus,  fairy. wind-flowers, 
Innocents  in  smiling  flocks  ; 

Coolest  ferns  within  the  hollows, 
Columbines  among  the  rocks  ; 

Dripping  streams,  delicious  mosses, 
Tassels  on  the  maple  trees ; 

Drowsy  insects,  humming,  humming ; 
Golden  butterflies  and  bees ; 


84  SPRING  IN   TUSCANY. 

Daffodils  in  garden  borders, 

Fiery  tulips  dashed  with  dew  ; 
Crocus  flowers ;  and,  through  the  greenness, 

Snowdrops  looking  out  at  you  ! 

MRS.  CAROLINE  ATHERTON  [BRIGGS]  MASON. 


SPRING  IN  TUSCANY. 

ROSE-RED  lilies  that  bloom  on  the  banner; 
Rose-cheeked  gardens  that  revel  in  spring; 

Rose-mouthed  acacias  that  laugh  as  they  climb, 
Like  plumes  for  a  queen's  hand  fashioned  to  fan  her 
With  wind  more  soft  than  a  wild  dove's  wing, 
What  do  they  sing  in  the  spring  of  their  time  ? 

If  this  be  the  rose  that  the  world  hears  singing, 
Soft  in  the  soft  night,  loud  in  the  day, 

Songs  for  the  fireflies  to  dance  as  they  hear; 
If  that  be  the  song  of  the  nightingale,  springing 
Forth  in  the  form  of  a  rose  in  May, 

What  do  they  say  of  the  way  of  the  year  ? 

What  of  the  way  of  the  world  gone  Maying, 
What  of  the  work  of  the  buds  in  the  bowers, 

What  of  the  will  of  the  wind  on  the  wall, 
Fluttering  the  wallflowers,  sighing  and  playing, 
Shrinking  again  as  a  bird  that  cowers, 
Thinking  of   hours  when   the  flowers  have  to 
fall  ? 


SPRING  IN  TUSCANY.  8$ 

Out  of  the  throats  of  the  loud  birds  showering, 
Out  of  the  folds  where  the  flag-lilies  leap, 
Out  of  the  mouths  of  the  roses  stirred, 
Out  of  the  herbs  on  the  walls  reflowering, 

Out  of  the  heights  where  the  sheer  snows  sleep, 
Out  of  the  deep  and  the  steep,  one  word, 

One  from  the  lips  of  the  lily-flames  leaping, 
The  glad  red  lilies  that  burn  in  our  sight, 

The  great  live  lilies  for  standard  and  crown ; 
One  from  the  steeps  where  the  pines  are  sleeping, 
One  from  the  deep  land,  one  from  the  height, 
One  from  the  light  and  might  of  the  town. 

The  lowlands  laugh  with  delight  of  the  highlands, 
\Yhence    May  winds   feed   them  with   balm   and 

breath 

From  hills  that  beheld  in  the  years  behind 
A  shape  as  of  one  from  the  blest  souls'  islands, 
Made  fair  by  a  soul  too  fair  for  death, 
With  eyes  on  the  light  that  should  smite  them 
blind. 

Vallombrosa  remotely  remembers, 

Perchance,  what  still  to  us  seems  so  near, 

That  time  not  darkens  it,  change  not  mars, 
The  foot  that  she  knew  when  her  leaves  were  Sep- 
tember's, 

The  face  lift  up  to  the  star-blind  seer, 
That  saw  from  his  prison  arisen  his  stars. 


86  MAY  MORN  SONG. 

And  Pisa  broods  on  her  dead,  not  mourning, 
For  love  of  her  loveliness  given  them  in  fee  ; 
And  Prato  gleams  with  the  glad  monk's  gift 
Whose  hand  was  there  as  the  hand  of  morning ; 
And  Siena,  set  in  the  sand's  red  sea, 

Lifts  loftier  her  head  than  the  red  sand's  drift. 

And  far  to  the  fair  southwestward  lightens, 

Girdled  and  sandaled  and  plumed  with  flowers, 

At  sunset  over  the  love-lit  lands, 
The  hillside's  crown  where  the  wild  hill  brightens, 
Saint  Fina's  town  of  the  Beautiful  Towers, 
Hailing  the  sun  with  a  hundred  hands. 

Land  of  us  all  that  have  loved  thee  dearliest, 
Mother  of  men  that  were  lords  of  man, 

Whose  name  in  the  world's  heart  works  as  a 

spell, 

My  last  song's  light,  and  the  star  of  mine  earliest, 
As  we  turn  from  thee,  sweet,  who  wast  ours  for  a 

span, 
Fare  well  we  may  not  who  say  farewell. 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 


MA  Y  MORN  SONG. 

THE  grass  is  wet  with  shining  dews, 
Their  silver  bells  hang  on  each  tree, 

While  opening  flower  and  bursting  bud 
Breathe  incense  forth  unceasingly ; 


MA  Y  MORN  SONG.  8/ 

The  mavis  pipes  in  greenwood  shaw, 

The  throstle  glads  the  spreading  thorn, 
And  cheerily  the  blithesome  lark 
Salutes  the  rosy  face  of  morn. 
'Tis  early  prime ; 

And  hark  !  hark !  hark ! 
His  merry  chime 

Chirrups  the  lark : 
Chirrup !  chirrup !  he  heralds  in 
The  jolly  sun  with  matin  hymn. 

Come,  come,  my  love  !  and  May-dews  shake 

In  pailfuls  from  each  drooping  bough ; 
They'll  give  fresh  lustre  to  the  bloom, 

That  breaks  upon  thy  young  cheek  now. 
O  er  hill  and  dale,  o'er  waste  and  wood, 

Aurora's  smiles  are  streaming  free ; 
With  earth  it  seems  brave  holyday, 
In  heaven  it  looks  right  jubilee. 
And  it  is  right, 

For  mark,  love,  mark  ! 
How  bathed  in  light 
Chirrups  the  lark : 
Chirrup  !  chirrup  !  he  upward  flies, 
Like  holy  thoughts  to  cloudless  skies. 

They  lack  all  heart  who  cannot  feel 

The  voice  of  heaven  within  them  thrill, 

In  summer  morn  when  mounting  high 
This  merry  minstrel  sings  his  fill. 


88  IN  SPRING. 

Now  let  us  seek  yon  bosky  dell 

Where  brightest  wildflowers  choose  to  be, 
And  where  its  clear  stream  murmurs  on, 
Meet  type  of  our  love's  purity ; 
No  witness  there, 

And  o'er  us  hark  ! 
High  in  the  air 

Chirrups  the  lark  : 
Chirrup  !  chirrup  !  away  soars  he, 
Bearing  to  heaven  my  vows  to  thee ! 

WILLIAM  MOTHERWKLL. 


IN  SPRING. 

THE  amorous  birds  now  pair  in  every  brake, 
And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field  and  brere, 
And  the  green  lizard  and  the  golden  snake, 
Like  unimprisoned  flames,  out  of  their  trance  awake. 

Through  wood  and  stream  and  field  and  hill  and 

ocean 

A  quickening  life  from  the  earth's  heart  has  burst, 
As  it  has  ever  done,  with  change  and  motion, 
From  the  great  morning  of  the  world  when  first 
God  dawned  on  chaos ;  in  its  stream  immersed, 
The  lamps  of  heaven  flash  with  a  softer  light ; 
All  baser  things  pant  with  life's  sacred  thirst, 
Diffuse  themselves,  and  spend  in  love's  delight 
The  beauty  and  the  joy  of  their  renewed  might. 

PERCY  BVSSHE  SHELLEY. 
AJonais. 


SONG  OF  THE  SPRING.  89 

SONG   OF  THE  SPRIA7G. 

BLUE  lies  the  light  upon  the  hills ; 

Keen  scents  of  earth  steal  freshly  up, 
Mixed  with  the  winy  air  that  fills 

The  valley  like  a  mighty  cup. 

Warm  winds,  blown  hither  from  yon  wold, 
Come  laden  with  the  breath  of  flowers, 

And  songs  of  brooks  are  blithely  trolled 
Through  all  the  slumberous,  sunlit  hours. 

From  far  afield,  yet  sweet  and  clear 
Above  the  mingled  sounds  of  spring, 

Through  all  the  mellow  day  I  hear 
The  swinging  sower  lightly  sing. 

Like  flakes  of  newly  fallen  snow, 
The  blossoms  flutter  from  the  trees ; 

And  like  far  music,  faint  and  low, 
I  hear  the  murmur  of  the  bees. 

Ah,  soul !  how  good  it  is  to  be  ! 

The  pulses  of  the  very  sod 
Awake,  and  stir  mysteriously 

Beneath  the  quickening  breath  of  God. 

There  is  no  death ;  the  years  shall  bring 

Thee  nearer  to  some  viewless  goal, 
Where  bloom  perennial  flowers  of  spring, 

And  singing  streams  forever  roll. 

JAMES  BENJAMIN  KEN  YON. 


90  'TWAS  PRIME   OF  MAY. 

MAY. 

OF  sunlight  and  green  shade,  and  songs  of  birds,  a 

happy  blending, 

Of  perfumes,  and  sweet  sounds,  and  eyes'  delight, 
Mild   showers,    and   blooming   boughs,   a   pleasure 

never-ending, 

A  gentle  coming  on  of  calm,  cool  night,  — 
These,  these  are  blessings  scattered  in  our  way, 
In  happy  May. 

In   happy   May, — when  winter,  girt   with   hideous 

winds 

Seeks  his  ice  caverns,  his  spies  work  summer  grief ; 
The  canker  blasts  the  bud ;  the  ivy  creeping  binds 
The  oak  in  galling  chains ;  the  chill  rain  spots  the 

leaf; 

They  plot  by  night,  they  plot  the  livelong  day 
In  mournful  May. 

GEORGE  WALTER  THORNBURY. 


PRIME   OF  MAY. 

'TWAS  prime  of  May ;  and  every  square  became 
A  murmuring  camp  of  summer.     Now  and  then 
A  dizzy  and  bewildered  butterfly 
Fluttered  through  noisy  streets. 

ALEXANDER  SMITH. 
A  Boy's  J'MHI. 


NATURE'S  FINEST  TOUCH.  $1 

WINDERMERE  IN  MID-MA  Y. 

COULD  aught  arrest  the  rushing  wings  of  Time 
Or  fix  his  shadow  on  the  dial's  face, 
This  were  the  hour  supreme,  the  perfect  place, 
Winandermere,  in  May's  eternal  prime, 
So  should  you  ask  her  emerald  never  yield 

Her  fragrant   snow  this  hawthorn,  —  thrush  and 

lark 

Carol  all  day,  and  not  one  storm-cloud  dark 
Fright  the  soft  fleeces  from  heaven's  azure  field ; 
The  while  we  drank  imperishable  delight 
From  the  sun-smitten  vale,  the  lustrous  lake, 

The  opposing  purple  of  the  lofty  Fells, 
And  breathed  his  verse  who  from  the  wood-nymph 

bright 
Stole  every  secret  of  the  whispering  brake, 

And  spoiled  the  Mountain  Spirit  of  all  his  spells. 
ALFRED  PERCEVAL  GRAVES. 


WHEN  NATURE   TRIES  HER  FINEST 
TOUCH. 

WHEN  Nature  tries  her  finest  touch, 

Weaving  her  vernal  wreath, 
Mark  ye,  how  close  she  veils  her  round, 
Not  to  be  traced  by  sight  or  sound, 
Nor  soiled  by  ruder  breath  ? 

JOHN  KEBLE. 
The  Christian  Year. 


92  VITA    VITA  US. 

VITA    VITALIS. 

WHEN  first  the  spring  grasses 

Take  motion,  and  glisten 
In  sun-litten  masses, 
Wherethrough  the  brook  passes 

And  shimmers  and  sings  ; 
When  first  the  birds  woo  me 

To  linger  and  listen, 
And  watch  them  upspringing 

On  wonderful  wings ; 
When  breezes  are  bringing 
Sweet  scents  to  renew  me, 
Sweet  sounds  thrilling  through  me, 

From  apple  blooms  over 

The  blossoming  clover, 
Where  bees  murmur,  clinging 
With  passionate  pleasure, 

And  butterflies  wander 
In  silence,  at  leisure, 

Like  spirits  that  ponder 
Inscrutable  things ;  — 

Then  always  and  ever, 
Despite  my  endeavor 

To  'scape  its  control, 
Some  inflowing  sadness 
Discolors  the  gladness 

That  freshens  my  soul ; 
Some  answerless  question, 
Some  subtile  suggestion, 


VITA    VITAL1S.  93 

Some  shyly  returning 
Unsought  recollection ; 
Some  eager  projection 

Of  vague  undiscerning, 

But  passionate  yearning ; 
A  hoping,  regretting, 
Remembering,  forgetting ; 
A  groping,  a  reaching, 
Demanding,  beseeching; 
A  strangeness,  a  dearness, 
A  distance,  a  nearness ; 
Perplexes,  excites  me, 
Repels  me,  invites  me, 

And  fills  me  with  fear : 

With  fear  of  foregoing 
My  life  without  knowing 

The  life  that  without  me, 

Above  me,  about  me, 
Is  ceaselessly  flowing 

So  near  me,  so  near ! 
So  near,  and  yet  ever 
Beyond  my  endeavor 
To  woo  it  and  win  it, 
To  have  it  and  be  it, 
To  lose  myself  in  it. 
I  only  can  see  it, 
And  feel  it  and  hear  it, 
And  love  it  and  fear  it, 

So  willing  to  bless  me, 

So  stern  to  repress  me. 


94  VITA    VITALIS. 

What  is  it,  —  what  is  it 
Which  makes  me  to  miss  it, 
And  only  to  miss  it  ? 

What  charm  to  be  spoken  ? 

What  spell  to  be  broken, 
Before  I  regain  it 
Once  more,  or  attain  it 
At  last,  and  inherit 

And  hold  as  securely 
As  any  of  these, 
The  life  that  my  spirit 

Remembers  obscurely, 
Obscurely  foresees  ? 

Winged  spirits,  that  wander 
In  silence  and  ponder 

Inscrutable  things, 
Ah !  why  do  ye  shun  me  ? 
Float  over,  light  on  me, 
O  touch  me  and  thrill  me, 
With  watchfulness  fill  me  ! 
Nay !  fan  me  and  still  me, 

Ye  wonderful  wings, 
To  slumber,  if  only, 
Me  sleeping,  my  lonely 

Shy  spirit,  who  knew  you 

Once  haply,  can  woo  you 

To  take  her  unto  you 
Once  more  where  ye  wander 
In  silence  and  ponder 

Inscrutable  things  ! 

ROBERT  KELI.EY  WEEKS. 


IN  A  MAY  DAY  HUSfT.  95 

SYLVAN  MUSINGS. 
(IN  MAY.) 

COUCHED  in  cool  shadow,  girt  by  billowy  swells 
Of  foliage,  rippling  into  buds  and  flowers, 
Here  I  repose  o'erfanned  by  breezy  bowers, 
Lulled  by  a  delicate  stream  whose  music  wells 
Tender  and  low  through  those  luxuriant  dells, 
Wherefrom  a  single  broad-leaved  chestnut  towers ; 
Still  musing  in  the  long,  lush,  languid  hours, 
As  in  a  dream  I  heard  the  tinkling  bells 
Of  far-off    kine,   glimpsed   through   the    verdurous 

sheen, 
Blent  with  faint  bleatings  from  the  distant  croft, 

The  bee -throngs  murmurous  in  the  golden  fern, 

The  wood-doves  veiled  by  depths  of  flickering  green, 

And  near  me,  where  the  wild  "  queen  fairies  " 

burn, 
The  thrush's  bridal  passion  warm  and  soft ! 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE, 


IN  A   MAY  DAY  HUSH. 

WHEN  in  a  May  day  hush 
Chanteth  the  missel-thrush 

The  harp  o'  the  heart  makes  answer  with  murmurous 
stirs. 

JEAN  INGELOW. 
The  Nightingale  Heard  by  tke  Unsatisfied  Heart. 


96  DANDELIONS. 

AN  ORCHARD  FANCY. 

THERE  stands  a  tree  in  the  orchard, 

All  leafless  in  its  woe, 
Yet  a  little  limb  bears  a  handful 

Of  blossoms  white  as  snow. 

A  picture  of  spring  and  winter 

Together,  it  seems  to  me, 
Or  some  old  bent  grandfather, 

With  his  grandchild  on  his  knee. 

RICHARD  KENDALL  MUNKITTRICK. 


DANDELIONS. 

Now  dandelions  in  the  short,  new  grass, 
Through  all  their  rapid  stages  daily  pass ; 
No  bee  yet  visits  them ;  each  has  its  place, 
Still  near  enough  to  see  the  other's  face ; 
Unkenned  the  bud,  so  like  the  grass  and  ground 
In  our  old  country  yards  where  thickest  found, 
Some  morn  it  opes  a  little  golden  sun, 
And  sets  in  its  own  west  when  day  is  done. 
In  a  few  days  more  'tis  old  and  silvery  grey, 
And  though  so  close  to  earth  it  made  its  stay, 
Lo  !  now  it  findeth  wings  and  lightly  flies, 
A  spirit  form,  till  on  the  sight  it  dies. 

JOHN  ALBFE. 


TO  AfAT.  97 

TO  MAY. 

MAY,  thou  month  of  rosy  beauty, 
Month,  when  pleasure  is  a  duty  ; 
Month  of  maids  that  milk  the  kine, 
Bosom  rich,  and  breath  divine ; 
Month  of  bees,  and  month  of  flowers, 
Month  of  blossom-laden  bowers  ; 
Month  of  little  hands  with  daisies, 
Lovers'  love,  and  poets'  praises  ; 

0  thou  merry  month  complete, 
May,  thy  very  name  is  sweet ! 
May  was  maid  in  olden  times, 
And  is  still  in  Scottish  rhymes  ; 
May's  the  blooming  hawthorn  bough ; 
May's  the  month  that's  laughing  now. 

1  no  sooner  write  the  word, 
Than  it  seems  as  though  it  heard, 
And  looks  up  and  laughs  at  me, 
Like  a  sweet  face,  rosily, 

Like  an  actual  color  bright, 
Flushing  from  the  paper's  white  ; 
Like  a  bride  that  knows  her  power, 
Started  in  a  summer  bower. 

If  the  rains  that  do  us  wrong 
Come  to  keep  the  winter  long 
And  deny  us  thy  sweet  looks, 
I  can  love  thee,  sweet,  in  books, 
Love  thee  in  the  poets'  pages, 
Where  they  keep  thee  green  for  ages ; 


98  IN  MIDDLE  MAY. 

Love  and  read  thee,  as  a  lover 
Reads  his  lady's  letters  over, 
Breathing  blessings  on  the  art, 
Which  commingles  those  that  part. 

There  is  May  in  books  forever ; 
May  will  part  from  Spenser  never ; 
May's  in  Milton,  May's  in  Prior, 
May's  in  Chaucer,  Thomson,  Dyer; 
May's  in  all  the  Italian  books  ; 
.She  has  old  and  modern  nooks, 
Where  she  sleeps  with  nymphs  and  elves 
In  happy  places  they  call  shelves, 
And  will  rise,  and  dress  your  rooms 
With  a  drapery  thick  with  blooms. 

Come,  ye  rains  then,  if  ye  will, 
May's  at  home,  and  with  me  still : 
But  come  rather,  thou,  good  weather, 
And  find  us  in  the  fields  together. 

JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH  HUNT. 


IN  MIDDLE  MA  Y. 

THE  nightingale,  full-toned  in  middle  May, 
Hath  ever  and  anon  a  note  so  thin 
It  seems  another  voice  in  other  groves. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 
Balin  and  Balait. 


MAY.  99 

APPLE  BLOSSOMS. 

THE  soft  wind  whispered  secrets  to  the  apple  tree, 
Caressed  her  in  his  arms  and  would  not  let  her  go 

Until  the  rosy  blossoms  came  triumphantly 

To  tell  the  one  sweet  message  that  he  wished  to 
know. 

A  timid  maiden  with  her  lover  lingered  there 

In  silence,  clasping  hands  amid  the  leaves  that 

fell, 

Till  one  bold  blossom  drifting  down  the  perfumed  air 
Just   touched   her  rounded  cheek,  and  bade  the 
blushes  tell. 

FRANK  DEMPSTER  SHERMAN. 


MAY. 

I  FEEL  a  newer  life  in  every  gale  ; 

The  winds  that  fan  the  flowers, 
And  with  their  welcome  breathings  fill  the  sail, 

Tell  of  serener  hours  : 
Of  hours  that  glide  unfelt  away 
Beneath  the  sky  of  May. 

The  spirit  of  the  gentle  south  wind  calls 

From  his  blue  throne  of  air, 
And  where  his  whispering  voice  in  music  falls, 

Beauty  is  budding  there  ; 
The  bright  ones  of  the  valley  break 
Their  slumbers,  and  awake. 


100  A  MAY  SONG. 

The  waving  verdure  rolls  along  the  plain, 

And  the  wide  forest  weaves, 
To  welcome  back  its  playful  mates  again, 

A  canopy  of  leaves ; 
And  from  its  darkening  shadow  floats 
A1  gush  of  trembling  notes. 

Fairer  and  brighter  spreads  the  reign  of  May ; 

The  tresses  of  the  woods 
With  the  light  dallying  of  the  west  wind  play ; 

And  the  full-brimming  floods, 
As  gladly  to  their  goal  they  run, 
Hail  the  returning  sun. 

JAMES  GATES  PERCIVAL. 


A  MA  Y  SONG. 

A  LITTLE  while  my  love  and  I, 
Before  the  mowing  of  the  hay, 

Twined  daisy-chains  and  cowslip-balls, 

And  caroled  glees  and  madrigals, 
Before  the  hay,  beneath  the  may, 

My  love  (who  loved  me  then)  and  I. 

For  long  years  now  my  love  and  I 
Tread  severed  paths  to  varied  ends ; 

We  sometimes  meet,  and  sometimes  say 

The  trivial  things  of  every  day, 

And  meet  as  comrades,  meet  as  friends. 

My  love  (who  loved  me  once)  and  I. 


A  SONG  OF  MAY.  IOI 

But  nevermore  my  love  and  I 

\Yill  wander  forth,  as  once,  together, 

Or  sing  the  songs  we  used  to  sing 

In  springtime  in  the  cloudless  weather ; 

Some  chord  is  mute  that  used  to  ring, 
Some  word  forgot  we  used  to  say 
Amongst  the  may,  before  the  hay,  . 

My  love  (who  loves  me  not)  and  I. 

MRS.  MARY  MONTGOMERIE  [LAME]  SINGLETON. 


A   SONG   OF  MAY. 

MY  heart  is  light  with  May,  with  May, 
My  heart  is  light  with  May ! 

The  sky  is  soft ;  the  coming  birds 
Are  silent  on  their  way. 

The  miracle  of  flower  and  fruit 
Not  yet  the  Lord  hath  wrought ; 

But  never  ripened  summertime 
So  bright  a  day  hath  brought. 

For  there  is  promise  in  the  air, 
And  murmurous  prophecy ; 

All  breathless  and  with  lifted  arms, 
Stand  waiting  shrub  and  tree. 

To-morrow  shall  the  blossoms  glow  ; 
At  dawn  the  birds  will  sing; 


102  THE    WOODS  IN  MAY. 

All  through  the  stillness  .deep  I  hear 
The  rushing  tide  of  spring. 

My  heart  is  light  with  May,  with  May, 

My  heart  is  light  with  May ! 
And  all  the  more  that  coming  birds 

Are  silent  on  their  way. 

MRS.  MARY  [MAPES]  DODGE. 


THE   WOODS  IN  MA  Y. 

'Tis  merry  in  greenwood,  —  thus  runs  the  old  lay, 
In  the  gladsome  month  of  lively  May 
When  the  wild  birds'  song  on  stem  and  spray 

Invites  to  forest  bower ; 
Then  rears  the  ash  his  airy  crest, 
Then  shines  the  birch  in  silver  vest, 
And  the  beech  in  glittering  leaves  is  drest, 
And  dark  between  shows  the  oak's  proud  breast, 

Like  a  chieftain's  frowning  tower ; 
Though  a  thousand  branches  join  their  screen, 
Yet  the  broken  sunbeams  glance  between, 
And  tip  the  leaves  with  lighter  green, 

With  brighter  tints  the  flower : 
Dull  is  the  heart  that  loves  not  then 
The  deep  recess  of  the  wildwood  glen, 
Where  roe  and  red-deer  find  sheltering  den 

\Yhen  the  sun  is  in  his  power. 

WALTER  SCOTT. 
Harold  the  Dauntless, 


SPRING  SONG.  — MAY.  1 03 

SPRING  SONG. 

WHILE  I  linger  in  her  room, 
Singing  idly  at  her  feet, 
Si  douce  est  la  Marguerite, 
Are  the  clover  blossoms  sweet, 
Are  the  apple  trees  in  bloom, 
While  I  linger  in  her  room  ? 

Is  there  murmuring  of  bees 
While  I  murmur  at  her  feet, 
Si  douce  est  la  Marguerite  ? 
Is  there  singing  swift  and  sweet 
By  the  brookside,  in  the  trees  ? 
Is  there  murmuring  of  bees  ? 

In  the  springtime  of  the  year, 
Sitting  singing  at  her  feet, 
Si  douce  est  la  Marguerite, 
Is  there  then  no  other  sweet 
Thing  to  see  or  have  or  hear 
In  the  springtime  of  the  year  ? 

ROBERT  KELLEY  WEEKS 


MAY. 

New  flowery  scents  strewed  everywhere, 
New  sunshine  poured  in  largess  fair, 

"  We  shall  be  happy  now,"  we  say. 
A  voice  just  trembles  through  the  air, 

And  whispers,  "  May." 


104 


Nay,  but  we  must  !    No  tiny  bud 
But  thrills  with  rapture  at  the  flood 

Of  fresh  young  life  which  stirs  to-day. 
The  same  wild  thrill  irradiates  our  blood  ; 

Why  hint  of  "  May  "  ? 

For  us  are  coming  fast  and  soon 
The  delicate  witcheries  of  June  ; 

July,  with  ankles  deep  in  hay  ; 
The  bounteous  Autumn.     Like  a  mocking  tune 

Again  sounds,  "  May." 

Spring's  last  born  darling,  clear-eyed,  sweet, 
Pauses  a  moment,  with  white  twinkling  feet, 

And  golden  locks  in  breezy  play, 
Half  teasing  and  half  tender,  to  repeat 

Her  song  of  "  May." 

Ah,  month  of  hope  !  all  promised  glee, 
All  merry  meanings,  lie  in  thee  ; 

Surely  no  cloud  can  daunt  thy  day. 
The  ripe  lips  part  in  shining  mockery, 

And  murmur,  "  May." 

Still  from  the  smile  a  comfort  may  we  glean  ; 
Although  our  "must-be's,"  "shall-be's,"  idle  seem, 

Close  to  our  hearts  one  little  word  we  lay. 
We  may  not  be  as  happy  as  we  dream, 

But  then  we,  —  may. 

SARAH  CHAUNCEY  WOOLSEY. 


A   SPRINGTIME.  1 05 

A   SPRINGTIME. 

ONE  knows  the  spring  is  coming  : 

There  are  birds  ;  the  fields  are  green  ; 

There  is  balm  in  the  sunlight  and  moonlight, 
A  dew  in  the  twilights  between. 

But  ever  there  is  a  silence, 

A  rapture  great  and  dumb, 
That  day  when  the  doubt  has  ended, 

And  at  last  the  spring  is  come. 

Behold  the  wonder,  O  silence ! 

Strange  as  if  wrought  in  a  night: 
The  waited  and  lingering  glory, 

The  world-old,  fresh  delight ! 

O  blossoms  that  hang  like  winter, 

Drifted  upon  the  trees, 
O  birds  that  sing  in  the  blossoms, 

O  blossom-haunting  bees, 

O  green,  green  leaves  on  the  branches, 

O  shadowy  dark  below, 
O  cool  of  the  aisles  of  orchards, 

Woods  that  the  wild  flowers  know : 

O  air  of  gold  and  perfume, 

Wind,  breathing  sweet  and  sun, 
O  sky  of  perfect  azure,  — 

Day,  Heaven  and  Earth  in  one  ! 


106  BESIDE    THE  SEA. 

Let  me  draw  near  thy  secret, 

And  in  thy  deep  heart  see 
How  fared,  in  doubt  and  dreaming, 

The  spring  that  is  come  in  me. 

For  my  soul  is  held  in  silence, 

A  rapture  great  and  dumb, 
For  the  mystery  that  lingered, 

The  glory  that  is  come  ! 

WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS. 


BESIDE   THE  SEA. 

I  STRAYED  one  golden  noon  in  May 
'Neath  trembling  trees  where  sunbeams  lay 
Like  bright  mosaics  on  the  grass. 
The  roystering  robins  saw  me  pass, 
And  quavered  forth  low  greeting  notes 
The  while  they  preened  their  glossy  coats. 
Down  winding  paths  where  tulips  burned 
And  jonquils  bright  their  gold  unurned, 
I  wandered  till  I  saw  outreach 
A  lawn  that  overlooked  the  beach. 
Athwart  its  emerald  belt  was  set 
A  deftly  wrought  and  dainty  net, 
Recalling  mimic  wars  between 
The  knights  who  trod  the  courts  of  green 
When  Pompadour,  long,  long  ago, 
With  Louis  roamed  through  Fontainebleau. 


IN  THE  PRIME  OF  SPRING.      IO/ 

Beneath  a  patriarchal  pine 
I  sat  and  watched  the  sunlit  brine. 
A  single  gull  far  out  at  sea 
Flew  up  the  still  air  spirally ; 
The  gleaming  of  its  silvery  wing 
Was  like  blown  aspen  leaves  in  spring, 
^"hite-pinioned  ships  sailed  slowly  by 
And  faded  'twixt  the  sea  and  sky, 
Each  seeking  weighty  argosies. 
The  hours  sped  on  like  silent  bees 
That  pass  at  noonday,  amber  clad ; 
The  lapping  of  the  waves  grew  sad 
As  is  the  song  of  hermit  thrush, 
Or  rustling  of  the  river  rush  ; 
Then  calm  night  came,  and  soon,  afar, 
A  beacon  light  shone  like  a  star ! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


IN  THE  PRIME   OF  SPRING. 

IT  was  in  the  prime 

Of  the  sweet  springtime. 

In  the  linnet's  throat 

Trembled  the  love-note, 
And  the  love-stirred  air 
Thrilled  the  blossoms  there. 

Little  shadows  danced 
Each  a  tiny  elf, 

Happy  in  large  light 
And  the  thinnest  self. 


108  COMO  Iff  MAY. 

It  was  but  a  minute 
In  a  far-off  spring, 
But  each  gentle  thing, 
Sweetly-wooing  linnet, 

Soft-thrilled  hawthorn  tree, 
Happy  shadowy  elf 
With  the  thinnest  self, 
Live  still  on  in  me. 
O  the  sweet,  sweet  prime 
Of  the  past  springtime  ! 

MRS.  MARIAN  [EVANS]  [LEWES]  CROSS. 
The  Spanish  Gipsey. 


COMO  IN  MA  Y. 

THE  snow  had  not  yet  faded  from  the  crest 
Where  Alpine  outskirts  envy  Italy, 
Yet,  looking  down  the  terraced  walks,  we  see, 

On  slopes  beneath  us,  bud  with  snowy  breast, 

And  crimson-bosomed  open  roses,  pressed 
With  jasmine's  slender  arm  and  starry  eye 
And  nameless  twining  vines  so  thick  and  nigh 

Unto  the  parapet  that,  unconfessed, 
The  stones  lie  hidden  in  luxuriance  ; 
And  where  the  bloom-girt  pathway  steepest  slants, 
A  ruined  tower  looks  on  the  lake's  blue  trance, 

Known  by  its  shape  alone,  so  deep  the  wall 

Is  buried  in  wistaria's  purple  fall 

And  countless  clustered  roses,  pink  and  small. 

MRS.  MARIANNA  [GRISWOLD]  VAN  KENSSKI.AER. 


A   SOA'G   OF  SPRING.  1 09 

A    SOArG   OF  SPRING. 

WITH  the  flying  scud,  with  the  birds  on  the  wing, 

We  wandered  out  at  the  close  of  day ; 
Our  faint  hearts  swelled  with  the  life  of  the  spring, 

As  the  young  buds  bourgeon  on  branch  and  spray. 
As  we  heard  the  sheltering  coppice  ring 

With  a  burst  of  joy  too  full  for  words, 
Our  hearts  sung,  too,  but  of  what  strange  thing 

We  knew  no  more  than  the  singing  birds. 

We  stood  mid  the  gorse  on  the  golden  hill 

As  the  sun  went  down  in  a  sea  of  mist ; 
Though  its  glory  was  lingering  around  us  still, 

We  were  sad  at  heart,  for  the  end  we  wist. 
A  homeless  breath  that  was  wandering  chill 

Had  found  a  voice  in  the  evening  breeze, 
And  the  silent  birds  that  had  sung  their  fill 

Were  asleep  in  the  shade  of  the  feathery  trees. 

"  Soul  of  the  younger  springs  gone  by, 

Why  haunt  us  with  that  breath  forlorn, 
Avenging  with  a  ghostly  sigh, 

Too  sad  for  words,  the  words  we  scorn  ? " 
We  said,  when  lo,  the  coppice  nigh 

Gave  forth  a  voice,  and  then  had  done : 
It  seemed  to  touch  the  stars  on  high, 

It  almost  might  recall  the  sun. 

Dear  bird  of  love,  fond  nightingale, 
That  firest  all  the  grove  with  song, 


IIO  IN  MAY. 

Till  we,  who  catch  the  tender  tale, 
Forget  the  years  that  do  us  wrong, 

Glad  birds  that  no  lost  springs  bewail, 
Sweet  hearts  that  are  not  sad  and  wise  : 

Wake  the  spring  night,  young  nightingale, 
And  we  will  see  it  with  thine  eyes. 

MRS.  EMILY  [DAVIS]  PFEIFFER. 


IN  MA  Y. 

.  .  .  ALL  the  land  in  flowery  squares 
Beneath  a  broad  and  equal-blowing  wind, 
Smelt  of  the  coming  summer,  as  one  large  cloud 
Drew  downward ;  but  all  else  of  heaven  was  pure 
Up  to  the  sun,  and  May  from  verge  to  verge, 

And  May  with  me  from  head  to  heel 

The  steer  forgot  to  graze, 

And,  where  the  hedgerow  cuts  the  pathway,  stood, 

Leaning  his  horns  into  the  neighbor  field, 

And  lowing  to  his  fellows.     From  the  woods 

Came  voices  of  the  well-contented  doves. 

The  lark  could  scarce  get  out  his  notes  for  joy 

But  shook  his  song  together  as  he  neared 

His  happy  home,  the  ground.     To  left  and  right, 

The  cuckoo  told  his  name  to  all  the  hills  ; 

The  mellow  ouzel  fluted  in  the  elm ; 

The  redcap  whistled  ;  and  the  nightingale 

Sang  loud,  as  though  he  were  the  bird  of  day. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 
The  Gardener's  Daughter. 


MA  y.  —  MA  YTIDE.  1 1 1 

MAY. 

HEBE'S  here,  May  is  here  ! 
The  air  is  fresh  and  sunny ; 
And  the  miser-bees  are  busy 
Hoarding  golden  honey ! 

See  the  knots  of  buttercups, 
And  the  purple  pansies  ; 
Thick  as  these,  within  my  brain, 
Grow  the  wildest  fancies  ! 

Let  me  write  my  songs  to-day, 
Rhymes  with  dulcet  closes ; 
Four-line  epics  one  might  hide 
In  the  hearts  of  roses. 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


MA  YTIDE. 

TORE  long  the  trees  begin  to  show  belief ; 

The  maple  crimsons  to  a  coral  reef, 

Then  saffern  swarms  swing  off  from  all  the  willers 

So  plump  they  look  like  yaller  caterpillars, 

Then  grey  hossches'nuts  leetle  hands  unfold 

Softer'n  a  baby's  be  at  three  days  old : 

Thet's  robin-redbreast's  almanick  ;  he  knows 

Thet  arter  this  ther's  only  blossom-snows  ; 

So,  choosin'  out  a  handy  crotch  an'  spouse, 

He  goes  to  plast'rin'  his  adobe  house. 


112  IN  MA  Y. 

Then  all  comes  crowdin'  in ;  afore  you  think, 
Young   oak-leaves    mist    the    side-hill   woods   with 

pink; 

The  catbird  in  the  laylock-bush  is  loud ; 
The  orchards  turn  to  heaps  o'  rosy  cloud ; 
Red  cedars  blossom  tu,  though  few  folks  know  it, 
And  all  look  dipt  in  sunshine  like  a  poet ; 
The  lime-trees  pile  their  solid  stacks  o'  shade 
An'  drows'ly  simmer  with  the  bees'  sweet  trade  ; 
In  ellum-shrouds  the  flashin'  hangbird  clings 
An'  for  the  summer  vy'ge  his  hammock  slings ; 
All  down  the  loose-walled  lanes  in  archin'  bowers 
The  barb'ry  droops  its  strings  o'  golden  flowers 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 
The  Biglow  Papers. 


IN  MA  K 

ALL  is  yclad 

With  pleasance  :  the  ground  with  grass,  the  woods 
With  green  leaves,  the  bushes  with  blooming  buds. 
Young  folk  now  flocken  in  everywhere, 
To  gather  May  baskets  and  smelling  brier : 
And  home  they  hasten  the  posts  to  dight, 
And  all  the  kirk  pillars  ere  daylight, 
With  hawthorn  buds,  and  sweet  eglantine, 
And  garlands  of  roses  and  sops  in  wine. 

KDMUND  SPENSER. 
The  Shcpheards  Calendar. 


THE   CANADIAN  SPRING.  113 

THE  CANADIAN  SPRING. 

'TWAS  May !  the  spring  with  magic  bloom 
Leaped  up  from  winter's  frozen  tomb. 
Day  lit  the  river's  icy  mail ; 

The  bland  warm  rain  at  evening  sank ; 
Ice  fragments  dashed  in  midnight's  gale  ; 

The  moose  at  morn  the  ripples  drank. 
The  yacht,  that  stood  with  naked  mast 

In  the  locked  shallows  motionless 
When  sunset  fell,  went  curtseying  past 

As  breathed  the  morning's  light  caress. 
The  woodsman  in  the  forest  deep, 

At  sunrise  heard  with  gladdening  thrill, 
AY  here  yestereve  was  gloomy  sleep, 

The  brown  rossignol's  carol  shrill ; 
YVhere  yestereve  the  snowbank  spread 

The  hemlock's  twisted  roots  between, 
He  saw  the  coltsfoot's  golden  head 

Rising  from  mosses  plump  and  green ; 
Whilst  all  around  were  budding  trees, 
And  mellow  sweetness  filled  the  breeze. 
A  few  days  passed  along,  and  brought 
More  changes  as  by  magic  wrought. 
With  plumes  were  tipped  the  beechen  sprays  ; 

The  birch  long  dangling  tassels  showed ; 
The  oak  still  bare,  but  in  a  blaze 

Of  gorgeous  red  the  maple  glowed ; 
With  clusters  of  the  purest  white 
Cherry  and  shadbush  charmed  the  sight 

Like  spots  of  snow  the  boughs  among; 


114      THE  FLOWER   OF  LOVE  LIES  BLEEDING. 

And  showers  of  strawberry  blossoms  made 
Rich  carpets  in  each  field  and  glade 

Where  day  its  kindliest  glances  flung. 
And  air  too  hailed  spring's  joyous  sway ; 

The  bluebird  warbled  clear  and  sweet ; 
Then  came  the  wren  with  carols  gay, 

The  customed  roof  and  porch  to  greet ; 
The  mock-bird  showed  its  varied  skill ; 
At  evening  moaned  the  whippoonvill. 
Type  of  the  spring  from  winter's  gloom  ! 

The  butterfly  new  being  found ; 
Whilst  round  the  pink  may-apple's  bloom 

Gave  myriad  drinking  bees  their  sound. 
Great  fleeting  clouds  the  pigeons  made ; 
When  near  her  brood  the  hunter  strayed 

With  trailing  limp  the  partridge  stirred  ; 
Whilst  a  quick  feathered  spangle  shot 
Rapid  as  thought  from  spot  to  spot 

Showing  the  fairy  hummingbird. 

ALFRED  BILLINGS  STREET. 
Frontenac. 


THE  FLOWER    OF  LOVE  LIES   BLEEDING. 

I  MET  a  little  maid  one  day, 

All  in  the  bright  May  weather; 

She  danced,  and  brushed  the  dew  away 
As  lightly  as  a  feather. 

She  had  a  ballad  in  her  hand 
That  she  had  just  been  reading, 


THE  FLOWER   OF  LOVE  LIES  BLEEDING.     115 

But  she  was  too  young  to  understand 
That  ditty  of  a  distant  land, 

"  The  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding." 

She  tripped  across  the  meadow  grass, 

To  where  a  brook  was  flowing, 
Across  the  brook  like  wind  did  pass, 

Wherever  flowers  were  growing. 
Like  some  bewildered  child  she  flew, 

Whom  fairies  were  misleading : 
"  Whose  butterfly,"  I  said,  "  are  you  ? 
And  what  sweet  thing  do  you  pursue  ?  " 

"  The  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding. 

"  I've  found  the  wild  rose  in  the  hedge, 

And  found  the  tiger-lily, 
The  blue  flag  by  the  water's  edge, 

The  dancing  daffodilly, 
Kingcups  and  pansies,  every  flower 

Except  the  one  I'm  needing ; 
Perhaps  it  grows  in  some  dark  bower, 
And  opens  at  a  later  hour, 

This  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding." 

"  I  wouldn't  look  for  it,"  I  said, 

"  For  you  can  do  without  it. 
There's  no  such  flower."    She  shook  her  head. 

"  But  I  have  read  about  it !  " 
I  talked  to  her  of  bee  and  bird, 

But  she  was  all  .unheeding  : 
Her  tender  heart  was  strangely  stirred  ! 


Il6  ON  THE  DOWXS 

She  harped  on  that  unhappy  word, 
"  The  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding !  " 

"  My  child,"  I  sighed,  and  dropped  a  tear, 

"  I  would  no  longer  mind  it ; 
You'll  find  it  some  day,  never  fear, 

For  all  of  us  must  find  it. 
I  found  it  many  a  year  ago, 

With  one  of  gentle  breeding  : 
You  and  the  little  lad  you  know, 
I  see  why  you  are  weeping  so ; 

Your  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding !  " 

RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 


ON  THE  DOWNS. 

UP,  up !  for  the  earth  is  a-Maying, 
And  heaven  herself  is  arraying 

With  woven  rose 

Of  cloudlets  that  float  and  shimmer, 
Pink  mists  where  the  sunbeams  glimmer 

In  warm  repose. 

The  boughs  new-fledged  are  flinging 
Green  silver  and  gold  with  singing 

Aloft  to  the  blue. 
O  heart  of  mine,  be  merry  ! 
With  the  flower  of  the  thorn  and  the  cherry, 

Sing  thy  songs  too  ! 

JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS. 


IN  MAYTIME.  1 1? 

THE  FIELDS  IN  MA  Y. 

WHAT  can  better  please, 

When  your  mind  is  well  at  ease. 
Than  a  walk  among  the  green  fields  in  May  ? 

To  see  the  verdure  new, 

And  to  hear  the  loud  cuckoo, 
While  sunshine  makes  the  whole  world  gay  ? 

When  the  grass  is  full  of  flowers, 
And  the  hedge  is  full  of  bowers, 

And  the  finch  and  the  linnet  piping  clear, 

Where  the  branches  throw  their  shadows 
On  a  footway  through  the  meadows, 

With  a  brook  among  the  cresses  winding  near. 

WILLIAM  ALLINGHAM. 


IN  MA  YTIME. 

UNDER  the  apple  boughs  as  I  sit 
In  Maytime,  when  the  robin's  song 
Thrills  the  odorous  winds  along, 

The  innermost  heaven  seems  to  ope  ; 
I  think,  though  the  old  joys  pass  from  sight, 
Still  something  is  left  for  hearts'  delight, 
For  life  is  endless,  and  so  is  hope. 

ANNE  WHITNEY. 
Bertha. 


Il8  BALLADE   OF   THE  MAYTIME, 

THE  FIRST  ROSE. 

THE  rose  that  in  the  springtide  ventures  forth 
To  woo  the  zephyr,  with  her  crimson  smiles 
And  odorous  wiles, 

Too  often  chances  on  the  cruel  North ; 
For  every  kiss  of  his  cold  lips, 
With  poisonous  blight  her  beauty  nips. 
Till  one  by  one  with  downcast  head 
She  weeps  away  her  petals  red, 
And  with  the  last,  bereft  of  life  and  light 
Sighs  forth  her  passionate  soul  on  the  dark  lap  of 
night. 

ALFRED  PERCEVAL  GRAVES 


BALLADE   OF  THE  MAYTIME. 

O  LADY  mine  with  the  sunlit  hair, 

The  birds  are  caroling  blithe  and  gay 
In  the  bourgeoning  boughs  that  sway  in  air 

O'er  the  grassy  aisles  of  the  orchard  way. 

The  mock-bird  pipes  to  the  busy  jay : 
There's  a  gleam  of  white  on  the  vines  that  twine 

Where  your  casement  opes  to  the  golden  day, 

O  lady  mine ! 

O  lady  mine  with  the  sunlit  hair, 

The  rills  are  glad  that  the  month  is  May  : 

The  dawns  are  bright,  and  the  eves  are  fair 
O'er  the  grassy  aisles  of  the  orchard  way. 


THE    WOODIVELE  IN  MAY.  1 19 

The  dales  have  doffed  their  gowns  of  grey, 
The  bending  buttercups  spill  their  wine, 
There  is  joy  in  the  heart  of  faun  and  fay, 

O  lady  mine  ! 

O  lady  mine  with  the  sunlit  hair, 

The  bees,  like  ruthless  bandits,  prey 
On  the  blooms  that  part  their  lips  in  prayer 

O'er  the  grassy  aisles  of  the  orchard  way. 

From  sunny  shores  where  the  nereids  play 
The  breezes  blow  o'er  the  foamy  brine, 

And  I  dream  I  hear  them  softly  say, 

"  O  lady  mine  ! " 

ENVOY. 

O  lady  mine,  wilt  thou  not  stray 
O'er  the  grassy  aisles  of  the  orchard  way, 
And  list  to  Love  where  the  wind-flowers  shine, 

O  lady  mine  ? 
CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


THE    WOODWELE  IN  MAY. 

I  HEAR  you  in  the  orchard  hid  in  clouds  of  apple 

flower, 
I  hear  you   tapping,  tapping,  busy  woodwele,  in 

my  tree ; 
My  heart  is  glad  to  hear  you  in  this  golden  morning 

hour, 

Your  tapping  is  —  you  cannot  know  —  how  sweet 
a  sound  to  me. 


120  THE    WOODWELE  IN  MAY. 

Oh,  tap,  tap  ;  tap,  tap,  tap  ! 
The  old  man  hears  you,  and  he  lifts  his  head   as 

white  as  snow, 
And  dreams  he  is  the  passionate  heart  of  fifty  years 

ago! 


The  glad  church  bells  were  ringing  then  as  they  are 

ringing  now ; 
The  orchard  was  in  bloom,  and  there  was  Sunday 

in  the  air ; 
My  dear  love's  face  was  sweeter  than  the  blossom 

on  the  bough, 

'Twas   bluest    Maytime   in  her  eyelids   and   her 
golden  hair ! 

Oh,  tap,  tap ;  tap,  tap,  tap  ! 
We   leaned   together,   lips  to  lips;    we  heard,  but 

could  not  see, 

A  woodwele  —  'twas   not  you,  friend  —  tapping   in 
that  apple  tree ! 


Although  'twas  Sunday,  still,  I  thought,  no  Sabbath- 
breaker  he ; 

And   though  to-day  is    Sunday  too,  no  Sabbath- 
breaker  you ; 
You  cannot  break,  but  you  can  make,  a  holy  day 

for  me : 

Your  tapping  crowds  my  trees  with  bloom,  and 
fills  my  skies  with  blue. 

Oh,  tap,  tap ;  tap,  tap,  tap  ! 


THE    WOODWELE  IN  MAY.  121 

I  hear  you,  and  my  cheek  is  flushed;  my  button-hole 
is  gay ; 

I  stride  erect,  —  what  need  have  I  of  any  staff  to- 
day ? 

Oh,  woodwele,  with  the   laughing  note,  I  feel  my 

heart  beat  fast, 
My  eyes  are  dim,  my  cheek  is  wet,  my  head  grows 

white  again  ; 
For  I  remember,  in  the  light  of  that  long-vanished 

past, 

How  kindly  life  has  dealt  with  me,    how   hard 
with  better  men. 

Oh,  tap,  tap  ;  tap,  tap,  tap  ! 
For  those  church  bells,   that  orchard  bloom,   that 

woodwele  in  the  tree, 

And  all  that  plighted  happiness  have  kept  their 
pledge  to  me ! 

My   dear   love's   eyes   are   faded   and   her  face    is 

wrinkled  now, 
And  all  the  golden  color  changed  to  silver  in  her 

hair; 
But  when  she  smiles,  —  ah,  then  you  see  the  blossom 

on  the  bough; 

And  when  she  speaks,  you  feel  a  sense  of  May- 
time  in  the  air ! 

Oh,  tap,  tap  ;  tap,  tap,  tap  ! 
Through  all  disguise,  my  dear  old  wife,  be  sure  I 

see  and  know 
The  pretty  maid  who  loved  a  poet  fifty  years  ago. 

WILLIAM  CANTON. 


122  THE  MAYTIME  RAPTURE. 

TO   THE  MONTH  OF  AT  AY. 

EACH  day  of  thine,  sweet  month  of  May, 

Love  makes  a  solemn  holy-day. 

I  will  perform  like  duty, 

Sith  thou  resemblest  every  way 

Astrasa,  queen  of  beauty. 

Both  your  fresh  beauties  do  partake, 
Either's  aspect  doth  summer  make, 
Thoughts  of  young  love  awaking  ; 
Hearts  you  both  do  cause  to  ache, 
And  yet  be  pleased  with  aching. 

Right  dear  art  thou,  and  so  is  she, 
E'en  like  attracting  sympathy, 
Gains  unto  both  like  dearness; 
I  ween  this  made  antiquity, 
Name  thee,  sweet  May  of  majesty, 
As  being  both  like  in  clearness. 

SIR  JOHN  DAVIES. 
Hymns  to  Astraa  (Queen  Elizabeth). 


THE  MAYTIME  RAPTURE. 

Now  are  the  moments,  brief  and  rare, 
When  Nature  warms  with  subtle  bliss, 

Like  some  chaste  maiden,  shy  of  air, 
Who  gives  her  lover  the  first  kiss ! 


THE  MAY  OF  THE    YEAR.  123 

The  willows  o'er  the  flashing  brook 
Bow  lissome,  with  fresh-mantled  stem, 

Like  graceful  ladies  when  they  look 
To  find  their  mirrors  praising  them ! 

The  orchard  aisles,  that  blooms  array 

In  odorous  mimicry  of  snow, 
Are  thrilled  through  every  happy  spray 

With  song's  mellifluous  overflow ! 

And  all  the  world,  with  greens  that  shine, 
With  breaking  buds  and  wings  that  flit, 
Seems  one  expectancy  divine 

Of  something  God  has  promised  it. 

EDGAR  FAWCETT. 
Four  Days. 


THE  MAY  OF  THE    YEAR. 

O  SHOW  me  a  season  as  mild  and  as  merry 
As  the  May  of  the  year  in  the  kingdom  of  Kerry. 
As  the  May  of  the  year,  as  the  May  of  the  year, 
When  the  eyes  of  Atlantic,  as  crystal  and  clear 
As  heaven's  own  blue,  are  beaming  on  you ; 
And  the  sun  moves  slowly  for  love  of  the  flowers 
(Such  flowers,  with  the  wild  bees  all  a-hum) 
And  delights  to  linger  above  the  bowers 
(Those  very  bowers,  so  dark  and  dumb, 
And  sorrowful  stripped  for  O,  how  long? 
But  now  how  green  !  how  full  of  song !) 


124  MOOA'RISE  IN  MAY. 

And  the  good  sun  gazes,  with  golden  gaze, 
On  the  evergreens  of  our  woodland  ways : 
A  gaze  so  glad,  —  arbutus  and  holly 
Forget  their  wintry  melancholy 
In  diamond  laughter,  and  he  delays 
The  happy  heedless  course  of  the  hours, 
And  looks  with  a  lingering  love-look  down 
To  do  his  duty 
To  Irish  beauty ; 

And  looks  again,  with  a  royal  frown, 
Steadfast  and  stern,  our  boys  to  burn, 
To  burn  our  boys  to  a  braver  brown. 

So  the  good  sun  his  course  delays 

For  he  loves  to  lengthen  our  sweet  spring  days. 

ALFRED  PERCEVAL  GRAVES. 


MOONRISE  IN  MA  Y. 

LONG  lights  gleam  o'er  the  western  wold 
Kindling  the  brown  moss  into  gold  ; 
The  bright  day  fades  into  the  blue 
Of  the  far  hollows,  dim  with  dew, 
The  breeze  comes  laden  with  perfume 
From  many  an  orchard  white  with  bloom, 
And  all  the  mellow  air  is  fraught 
With  beauty  beyond  fancy's  thought. 

Outspread  beneath  me,  breathing  balm 
Into  the  evening's  golden  calm, 


MOONRISE  IN  MAY.  12$ 

Lie  trellised  gardens,  thickly  sown 
With  nodding  lilacs,  newly  blown, 
Borders  with  hyacinthus  plumed, 
And  beds  with  purple  pansies  gloomed ; 
Cold  snowdrops,  jonquils  pale  and  prim, 
And  flamy  tulips,  burning  dim 
In  the  cool  twilight,  till  they  fold 
In  sleep  their  oriflammes  of  gold. 

With  many  a  glimmering  interchange 
Of  moss  and  flowers  and  terraced  range 
The  pleasant  garden  slopes  away 
Into  the  gloom  of  shadows  grey, 
Where,  darkly  green,  the  churchyard  lies 
With  all  its  silent  memories. 
There  the  first  violets  love  to  blow 
About  the  headstones,  leaning  low; 
There,  from  the  golden  willows,  swing 
The  first  green  garlands  of  the  spring, 
And  the  first  bluebird  builds  her  nest 
By  the  old  belfry's  umbered  crest. 

Beyond,  where  groups  of  stately  trees 
Waiting  their  vernal  draperies, 
Stand  outlined  on  the  evening  sky, 
The  golden  lakes  of  sunset  lie  ; 
With  many-colored  isles  of  light, 
Purple  and  pearl  and  chrysolite, 
And  realms  of  cloudland,  floating  far 
Beyond  the  horizon's  dusky  bar, 
Now,  fading  from  the  lurid  bloom 
Of  twilight  to  a  silver  gloom, 


126  MOONRISE  IN  MAY. 

As  the  fair  moon's  ascending  beam 
Melts  all  things  to  a  holy  dream. 

So  fade  the  cloud-wreaths  from  my  soul 
Beneath  thy  solemn,  soft  control, 
Enchantress  of  the  stormy  seas, 
Priestess  of  night's  high  mysteries  ! 
Thy  ray  can  pale  the  north-light's  plume, 
And,  where  the  throbbing  stars  illume 
With  their  far-palpitating  light 
The  holy  cloisters  of  the  night, 
Thy  presence  can  entrance  their  beams, 
And  lull  them  to  diviner  dreams. 
To  thee  belong  the  silent  spheres 
Of  memory,  the  enchanted  years 
Of  the  dead  past,  the  shrouded  woes 
That  sleep  in  sculptural  repose. 

Thy  solemn  light  doth  interfuse 

The  magic  world  wherein  I  muse, 

With  something  too  divinely  fair 

For  earthly  hope  to  harbor  there  ; 

A  faith  that  reconciles  the  will 

Life's  mystic  sorrow  to  fulfil ; 

A  benison  of  love  that  falls 

From  the  serene  and  silent  halls 

Of  night,  till  through  the  lonely  room 

A  heavenly  odor  seems  to  bloom, 

And  lilies  of  eternal  peace 

Glow  through  the  moonlight's  golden  fleece. 

MRS.  SARAH  HELEN  [POWER]  WHITMAN. 


PROPHETIC  BIRDS.  I2/ 

PROPHETIC  BIRDS. 

ON  May  morn  two  lovers  stood 

For  the  first  time  in  the  wood  ; 

And  lip  wooed  lip,  and  heart  wooed  heart, 

Till  words  must  cease,  and  tears  must  start ; 

And  overhead  in  the  rustling  green 

The  birds  talked  over  their  fate  unseen. 

"Sure,"  said  the  thrush,  "we'll  wed  them  soon;" 
"  Yea,"  said  the  turtle-dove,  "  in  June  ;  " 
"They'll  make  fine  sport  ere  the  year  is  out," 
Said  the  magpie  between  a  laugh  and  a  shout. 
And  heedlessly  the  lovers  heard 
The  senseless  babble  of  bird  with  bird. 

"Sure,"  croaked  the  jackdaw,  "in  July 

They'll  quarrel,  or  no  daw  am  I ; 

\Yhy,  let  them,  since  they  are  but  men  ;  " 

"  They  can  make  it  up  though,"  quoth  the  wren. 

And  heedlessly  the  lovers  heard 

A  senseless  babble  of  bird  with  bird. 

"  Love  with  them  shall  be  sweet,  ere  sad," 

Said  the  goldfinch,  "  August  shall  make  them  glad." 

"Yea,"  said  the  oriole,  "one  rich  noon 

They  shall  lengthen  love  in  a  golden  swoon." 

And  all  this  while  the  lovers  heard 

But  a  senseless  babble  of  bird  with  bird. 

"  My  news  is  from  Prince  Popinjay," 
Sighed  the  hoopoe.     "  Ah  !  one  August  day 


128  THE  BIRDS  IN  MAY. 

They  shall  dream  in  the  sunset,  and  fall  asleep, 
And  one  shall  awake  from  the  dream  to  weep." 
And  heedlessly  the  lovers  heard 
This  senseless  babble  of  bird  with  bird. 

But  a  nightingale  in  a  far-off  shade 

That  moment  silenced  the  chattering  glade, 

And  sang  like  an  angel  from  above 

Some  mystic  song  of  eternal  love. 

And  all  this  singing  the  lovers  heard 

As  the  senseless  babble  of  bird  with  bird. 

ARTHUR  VV.  E.  O'SHAUGHNESSY. 


THE  BIRDS  IN  MA  Y. 

.  .  .  OFT  in  the  merry  season  and  the  morning  of 

the  May 
The  birds  break  out  a-singing  for  the  world's  face 

waxen  gay, 
And  they  flutter  there   in  the  blossoms,  and    run 

through  the  dewy  grass, 
As  they  sing  the  joy  of  the  springtide,  that  bringeth 

the  summer  to  pass ; 
And  they  deem  that  for  them  alone  was  the  world 

wrought  long  ago, 
And  no  hate  and  no  repentance,  and  no  fear  to  come 

they  know. 

WILLIAM  MORRIS. 
The  Story  of  Sigurd  the  Volsung. 


WAITING  FOR  JUNE. 


WAITING   FOR   JUNE. 

WITHIN  the  woods  the  sweet  arbutus  trails 

Its  blossoming  length.     The  happy  robin  sings. 
Nature  the  while  a  joyous  face  unveils, 

Bright  with  the  sunshine  of  her  countless  springs. 
The  days  grow  longer;  and  the  strawberries  blush, 

Ready  to  ripen  in  the  year's  hot  noon, 
And  in  the  shade,  the  amorous-voiced  thrush 

Waits  for  thy  coming,  soft,  delicious  June. 

The  angler  casts  within  the  swift  cascade 

The  ready  line,  whereon  the  gorgeous  fly, 
To  tempt  the  trout,  by  skilful  hand  is  played, 

Or  strong-mouthed  salmon  as  he  passes  by. 
The  playful  bass  leaps  glistening  from  the  stream, 

And  shuns  with  veering  fin  the  dangerous  rocks, 
Along  his  sides  the  western  sunrays  gleam, 

And  swift-winged  swallows  past  me  wheel   their 
flocks. 

How  sweet  to  rest,  ere  dawns  the  summer's  heat, 

Where  violets  gaze  upward  to  the  sky  ; 
To  hear  the  brooklet  murmuring  at  my  feet, 

And  see  its  waters  as  they  sparkle  by  ; 
To  lay  my  ear  close  to  my  mother  earth, 

And  listen  to  her  myriad  voices  low  ; 
To  search  the  secret  of  the  daisies'  birth, 

And  why,  in  spring,  the  wood  flowers  bud  and 
blow. 


130  ON  THE  SPRING. 

The  sparrow  chirps ;  the  lark  upsoars  and  sings  ; 

The  brown-winged  beetles  slowly  past  me  creep ; 
And  through  the  shadows  flit  a  thousand  things 

That  make  the  pulses  of  my  being  leap. 
O  mother  Nature  !     Take  me  to  your  breast, 

While  earth,  and  air,  and  sky,  are  all  in  tune ; 
Close  to  thy  heart,  a  child,  I  fain  would  rest, 

And  wait  the  coming  of  delicious  June. 

ELISHA  NORMAN  GUNNISON. 


ON  THE  SPRING. 

Lo  !  where  the  rosy-bosomed  Hours, 

Fair  Venus'  train,  appear, 
Disclose  the  long-expecting  flowers, 

And  wake  the  purple  year ! 
The  Attic  warbler  pours  her  throat, 
Responsive  to  the  cuckoo's  note, 

The  untaught  harmony  of  spring ; 
While,  whispering  pleasure  as  they  fly, 
Cool  zephyrs  through  the  clear  blue  sky 

Their  gathered  fragrance  fling. 

Where'er  the  oak's  thick  branches  stretch 

A  broader  browner  shade, 
Where'er  the  rude  and  moss-grown  beech 

O'ercanopies  the  glade, 
Beside  some  water's  rushy  brink 
With  me  the  Muse  shall  sit,  and  think 


OJV  THE  SPRING. 

(At  ease  reclined  in  rustic  state) 
How  vain  the  ardor  of  the  crowd, 
How  low,  how  little  are  the  proud, 

How  indigent  the  great ! 

Still  is  the  toiling  hand  of  care  ; 

The  panting  herds  repose  : 
Yet  hark,  how  through  the  peopled  air 

The  busy  murmur  glows  ! 
The  insect  youth  are  on  the  wing, 
Eager  to  taste  the  honied  spring, 

And  float  amid  the  liquid  noon  : 
Some  lightly  o'er  the  current  skim, 
Some  show  their  gayly-gilded  trim 

Quick-glancing  to  the  sun. 

To  contemplation's  sober  eye 

Such  is  the  race  of  man ; 
And  they  that  creep,  and  they  that  fly, 

Shall  end  where  they  began. 
Alike  the  busy  and  the  gay 
But  flutter  through  life's  little  day, 

In  fortune's  varying  colors  drest : 
Brushed  by  the  hand  of  rough  mischance, 
Or  chilled  by  age,  their  airy  dance 

They  leave,  in  dust  to  rest. 

Methinks  I  hear  in  accents  low 

The  sportive  kind  reply  : 
Poor  moralist !  and  what  art  thou  ? 

A  solitary  fly ! 


132  MAYTIME. 

Thy  joys  no  glittering  female  meets, 
No  hive  hast  thou  of  hoarded  sweets, 

No  painted  plumage  to  display : 
On  hasty  wings  thy  youth  is  flown ; 
Thy  sun  is  set,  thy  spring  is  gone : 

We  frolic  while  'tis  May. 

THOMAS  GRAY. 


MA  YTLME. 

A  MIST  of  stars,  a  glimmering  veil 
Before  the  ancient  throne  of  night ; 

A  planet  like  a  sentinel 
Upon  the  outer  height. 

Far  dusky  deeps,  and  wide  still  air, 
Where  fainting  fragrance  rolls  along  ; 

A  bird  that  warbles  in  his  dream 
Some  thrill  of  broken  song. 

Thick  fruit-flowers  languishing  for  light 
Around  us  in  the  perfect  gloom ; 

And,  as  we  wait,  far  off  and  low, 
The  distant  breakers'  boom. 

Ah,  among  all  delicious  nights, 

Give  me  this  air's  transcendent  swoon; 

Enchanted  song,  enchanted  hush, 
And  May  without  a  moon  ! 

MRS.  HARRIET  ELIZABETH  [PRESCOTT]  SPOFFORD. 

I-'ancics. 


A  SPRING  SONG.  133 


A   SPRING  SONG. 

LONG  has  been  the  winter, 

Long,  long,  in  vain 
We've  sought  the  bud  upon  the  bough, 

The  primrose  in  the  lane. 
Long  have  skies  been  dull  and  grey, 

Nipping's  been  the  blast ; 
But,  sing !  Summer's  coming ! 
The  bee  is  out  at  last. 
Sing !  Winter's  flying ; 

Summer's  coming  fast ; 
Humming  joy  and  Springtime, 
The  bee  is  out  at  last. 

Loud  shouts  the  cuckoo ; 
The  nested  elm  round, 
Wheels  the  rook,  cawing ; 

There  are  shadows  on  the  ground. 
Warm  comes  the  breeze  and  soft, 

Freezing  days  are  past. 
Sing !  Summer's  coming ! 
The  bee's  out  at  last. 
Sing !  Winter's  flying ; 

Summer's  coming  fast ; 
Humming  hope  and  Springtime, 
The  bee's  out  at  last. 

WILLIAM  Cox  BENNETT. 


134  LATE  SPRING  EVENING. 

LATE  SPRING  EVENING. 

I  SAW  the  Virgin-mother  clad  in  green, 
Walking  the  sprinkled  meadows  at  sundown  ; 
While  yet  the  moon's  cold  flame  was  hung  between 
The  day  and  night,  above  the  dusky  town : 
I  saw  her  brighter  than  the  western  gold, 
Whereto  she  faced  in  splendor  to  behold. 

Her  dress  was  greener  than  the  tenderest  leaf 
That  trembled  in  the  sunset  glare  aglow : 
Herself  more  delicate  than  is  the  brief 
Pink  apple  blossom,  that  May  showers  laid  low, 
And  more  delicious  than's  the  earliest  streak 
The  blushing  rose  shows  of  her  crimson  cheek. 

As  if  to  match  the  sight  that  did  her  please, 
A  music  entered,  making  passion  fain  ; 
Three  nightingales  sat  singing  in  the  trees, 
And  praised  the  goddess  for  the  fallen  rain  ; 
Which  yet  their  unseen  motions  did  arouse, 
Or  parting  zephyrs  shook  out  from  the  boughs. 

And  o'er  the  treetops,  scattered  in  mid  air, 
The  exhausted  clouds,  laden  with  crimson  light 
Floated,  or  seemed  to  sleep ;  and  highest  there, 
One  planet  broke  the  lingering  ranks  of  night ; 
Daring  day's  company,  so  he  might  spy 
The  Virgin-queen  once  with  his  watchful  eye. 

And  when  I  saw  her,  then  I  worshipped  her, 

And  said,  —  O  bounteous  Spring,  O  beauteous  Spring, 


AT  THE   CLOSE  OF  SPRING.  135 

Mother  of  all  my  years,  thou  who  dost  stir 
My  heart  to  adore  thee  and  my  tongue  to  sing, 
Flower  of  my  fruit,  of  my  heart's  blood  the  fire, 
Of  all  my  satisfaction  the  desire  ! 

How  art  thou  every  year  more  beautiful, 
Younger  for  all  the  winters  thou  hast  cast : 
And  I,  for  all  my  love  grows,  grow  more  dull, 
Decaying  with  each  season  overpast ! 
In  vain  to  teach  him  love  must  man  employ  thee, 
The  more  he  learns  the  less  he  can  enjoy  thee. 

ROBERT  BRIDGES. 


AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  SPRING. 

THE  garlands  fade  that  spring  so  lately  wove, 

Each  simple  flower,  which  she  had  nursed  in  dew, 
Anemones  that  spangled  every  grove, 

The  primrose  wan,  and  harebell  mildly  blue. 
No  more  shall  violets  linger  in  the  dell, 

Or  purple  orchis  variegate  the  plain, 
Till  spring  again  shall  call  forth  every  bell, 

And  dress  with  hurried  hands  her  wreaths  again. 
Ah,  poor  humanity  !  so  frail,  so  fair, 

Are  the  fond  visions  of  thy  early  day, 
Till  tyrant  passion  and  corrosive  care 

Bid  all  thy  fairy  colors  fade  away ! 
Another  May  new  buds  and  flowers  shall  bring; 
Ah !  why  has  happiness  no  second  spring  ? 

MRS.  CHARLOTTE  [TURNER]  SMITH. 


136  FAREWELL    TO  SPKIXG. 


FAREWELL    TO  SPRING. 

I  SAW  this  morning  with  a  sudden  smart, 

Spring  preparing  to  depart. 
I  know  her  well  and  so  I  told  her  all  my  heart. 

"  Why  did  you,  Spring,  your  coming  so  delay, 

If,  now  here,  you  cannot  stay  ? 
You  win  my  love  and  then  unloving  pass  away. 

"  We  waited,  waited,  O  so  long,  so  long, 

Just  to  hear  the  ouzel's  song. 
To-morrow  'twill  be  hushed,  to-day  that  is  so  strong. 

"  Day  after  day,  and  dawn  again  on  dawn, 

Winter's  shroud  was  on  the  lawn, 
So  still,  so  smooth,  we  thought  'twould  never  be  with- 
drawn. 

"  Now  that  at  last  your  welcome  mimic  snow 

Doth  upon  the  hawthorn  blow, 
It  bides  not  on  the  bough,  but  melts  before  we  know. 

"  Scarce  hath  the  primrose  o'er  the  sordid  mould 

Lavished  treasure,  than  behold  ! 
Our  wealth  of  simple  joy  is,  robbed  of  all  its  gold. 

"  When  to  the  woods  we  hie  with  feet  of  mirth, 

Now  the  hyacinths  have  birth, 

Swiftly  the  blue  of  heaven  fades  from  the  face  of 
earth. 


FAREWELL    TO  SPRIA'G.  137 

"  First  drops  the  bloom,  then  darkens  the  green  leaf ; 

Every  thing  in  life  is  brief, 

Save  autumn's  deepening  gloom  and  winter's  change- 
less grief." 

Then  with  a  smile  thus  answered  me  the  Spring : 

"  To  my  voice  and  flight  you  cling, 
For  I,  before  I  perch,  again  am  on  the  wing. 

"  With  you  were  I  the  whole  year  round  to  stay, 

'Twould  be  you  that  went  away, 
Your  love  made  fickle  by  monotony  of  May. 

"  Love  cannot  live  save  upon  love  beyond. 

Leaving  you,  I  keep  you  fond, 
Not  letting  you  despair,  but  making  you  despond. 

"  Farewell,  and  love  me  still,  my  lover  dear, 

Love  me  till  another  year, 
And  you,  if  you  be  true,  will  find  me  here." 

Then  darker,  deeper,  waxed  the  woods ;  the  ground 

Flowerless  turned,  and  then  embrowned  ; 
And  less  was  of  sweet  scent,  and  less  was  of  sweet 
sound. 

Mute  was  the  mavis,  moulted  was  the  thorn, 

Meads  were  cut,  and  lambs  were  shorn, 
And  I  by  Spring  was  left  forsaken  and  forlorn. 

Forlorn,  forsaken,  shall  I  be  until 

Primrose  peep  and  throstle  shrill, 
And  in  the  orchard  gleam  the  outriding  daffodil. 


138  A   SPKSNG  PICTURE. 

Then  shall  I  know  that  Spring  among  the  trees 

Hiding  is,  and  that  the  breeze 
Anew  will  bear  abroad  odors  and  melodies. 

ALFRED  AUSTIN. 


AT   WHITSUNTIDE. 

.  .  .  PENTECOST  had  kindled  all  the  trees 
To  tremulous  thin  whispering  flames  of  green, 
And  given  to  each  a  sacred  word  to  say  ; 
And  wind-fine  voices  of  the  wind-borne  birds 
Were  ever  woven  in  among  their  words. 
Soft-brooding  o'er  the  hamlet  where  it  lay, 
The  circling  hills  stood  stoled  with  holy  white, 
For  orchards  break  to  blossom  in  the  night ; 
And  all  the  morning  was  one  blown  blue  flower, 
And  all  the  world  was  at  its  perfect  hour. 

HELEN  GRAY  CONE. 
Oberon. 


A   SPRING  PICTURE. 

A  HIGH  cliff-meadow  lush  with  spring  ; 
Gay  butterflies  upon  the  wing ; 
Beneath,  beyond,  unbounded,  free, 
The  foam-flecked,  blue,  pervading  sea. 

LEWIS  MORRIS. 
Pictures. 


A  SPRING  LOVE  SONG.  139 

IN  MA  Y. 

FROM  eastern  summits,  pine-possessed, 

The  slow  sun  climbs  the  reddening  skies, 
A  shaft  of  color  strikes  the  west, 

The  phoebe  shakes  her  wings,  and  flies ; 
A  muffled  murmuring  in  the  hive 

Grows  thicker  with  the  crescent  day ; 
All  mummied  creatures  stir,  alive, 

And  bask  beneath  the  warmth  of  May. 

From  brink  to  base,  the  hills  descend 

All  steeped  in  dark  and  drenched  in  dew ; 
The  orchards  flush  from  end  to  end, 

The  pink  azalea  flowers  anew. 
Ere  yet  those  amber  cells  are  sealed 

Another  moon  shall  lapse  away, 
Yet  mine  the  pledge  of  wood  and  field, 

The  empty  honeycomb  of  May. 

DORA  READ  GOODALE. 


A   SPRING  LOVE  SONG. 

THE  earth  is  waking  at  the  voice  of  May, 
The  new  grass  brightens  by  the  trodden  way, 
The  woods  wave  welcome  to  the  sweet  spring  day, 

And  the  sea  is  growing  summer  blue  ; 
But  fairer,  sweeter  than  the  smiling  sky, 
Or  bashful  violet  with  tender  eye, 
Is  she  whose  love  for  me  will  never  die  ; 
•  I  love  you,  darling,  only  you ! 


1 40  MA  Y  AND  DEA  TIL 

O  friendships  falter  when  misfortunes  frown, 
The  blossoms  vanish  when  the  leaves  turn  brown, 
The  shells  lie  stranded  when  the  tide  goes  down, 

But  you,  dear  heart,  are  ever  true. 
The  grass  grows  greenest  when  the  raindrops  fall, 
The  vine  clasps  closest  to  the  crumbling  wall, 
So  love  blooms  sweetest  under  sorrow's  thrall ; 

I  love  you,  darling,  only  you  1 

The  early  robin  may  forget  to  sing, 
The  loving  mosses  may  refuse  to  cling, 
Or  the  brook  to  tinkle  at  the  call  of  spring, 

But  you,  dear  heart,  are  ever  true. 
Let  the  silver  mingle  with  your  curls  of  gold, 
Let  the  years  grow  dreary  and  the  world  wax  old, 
But  the  love  I  bear  for  you  will  ne'er  grow  cold ; 

I  love  you,  darling,  only  you  ! 

MRS.  ELIZABETH  ANN  [CHASE]  [AKERS]  ALLEN 


MA  Y  AND  DEA  TH. 

I  WISH  that  when  you  died  last  May, 
Charles,  there  had  died  along  with  you 

Three  parts  of  spring's  delightful  things ; 
Ay,  and,  for  me,  the  fourth  part  too. 

A  foolish  thought,  and  worse,  perhaps  ! 

There  must  be  many  a  pair  of  friends 
Who,  arm  in  arm,  deserve  the  warm 

Moon-births  and  the  long  evening-ends. 


JN  MAY.  141 

So,  for  their  sakes,  be  May  still  May ! 

Let  the  new  time,  as  mine  of  old, 
Do  all  it  did  for  me  :  I  bid 

Sweet  sights  and  sounds  throng  manifold. 

Only,  one  little  sight,  one  little  plant, 

Woods  have  in  May,  that  starts  up  green 

Save  a  sole  streak  which,  so  to  speak, 

Is  spring's  blood,  spilt  its  leaves  between, 

That,  they  might  spare  ;  a  certain  wood 

Might  miss  the  plant ;  their  loss  were  small : 

But  I,  —  whene'er  the  leaf  grows  there, 
Its  drop  comes  from  my  heart,  that's  all. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


IN  MA  Y. 

WHY,  ye  glories  of  to-day, 

Will  ye  bring  a  wet  cheek  here  ? 

Light  and  odor,  song  and  breeze, 

In  delicious  concord  play ; 

What  but  care  should  fret  the  tear 

When  we  walk  midst  joys  like  these  ? 

It  is  all  too  dark  to  see 
Sometimes,  what  our  spirits  hold  ; 
All  too  damp  for  chords  to  sound, 
Or  the  rain  falls  noisily, 


142  RONDEAU. 

Or  the  wind  is  fierce  and  cold, 
And  our  gentle  thoughts  are  bound. 

But  the  tender  looks  of  May 
Set  them  free  and  light  the  soul ; 
Overwhelmed  at  seeing  there 
All  we  ever  laid  away, 
Rapturous  sadness  gains  control : 
Tears  must  come,  but  not  of  care. 

CHARLOTTE  FISKE  BATES. 


RONDEAU. 

WHEN  the  May  moon  wanes  how  fresh  is  the  day ! 
How  sweet  the  smell  of  the  new-mown  hay ! 

And  sweeter  still  the  breath  of  morn. 

A  long  farewell  to  the  weeks  forlorn 
Of  raw  east  winds ;  to  the  fields  away ! 

Now  hail  to  the  apple-blooms'  display  ! 
Hail,  hail  to  the  meadows'  rich  array  ! 

And  the  dewdrop  sparkles  within  the  thorn 
When  the  May  moon  wanes. 

The  bobolink  returns  with  his  roundelay, 
The  timorous  hare  from  his  covert  may  stray, 

He  may  nibble  the  blades  of  the  springing  corn, 
For  the  hunter,  the  hunter  winds  not  his  horn. 
Sweet  World  !  can  I  ever  upbraid  thee  ?     Nay,  — 
When  the  May  moon  wanes. 

MELVJLLE  MADISON  BIGKLOW. 


IN    WANING    MAY.  143 

IN  WANING  MAY. 

DOVES  softly  cooing  murmurs  musical 
Gladdened  unseen  the  darksome  cloud  of  pines  : 
Below  bright-hued  innumerable  wings 
Carried  love  messages  from  flower  to  flower. 
For  Spring's  outstretching  fingers  nearly  touched 
The  Summer's  welcoming  hands. 

THOMAS  WOOLNER. 
Pygmalion. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


PACK 

A  cottage  in  a  winding  lane 18 

After  April,  when  May  follows 48 

A  high  cliff-meadow  lush  with  spring        ....  138 

A  little  while  my  love  and  I 100 

All  is  yclad 112 

All  maiden  lives  that  waned  in  their  young  prime        .  54 

All  the  clouds  about  the  sun  lay  up  in  golden  creases      .  30 

All  the  land  in  flowery  squares no 

Along  these  low  pleached  lanes,  on  such  a  day         .         .  66 

A  mist  of  stars,  a  glimmering  veil         ....  132 

Among  the  changing  months,  May  stands  confessed         .  27 

Apple  blossoms,  budding,  blowing        ....  77 

Apple  blossoms  in  the  orchard 83 

A  rush  last  night  of  pinions  sweeping  by     ...  44 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day .        .  73 

Birds'  love  and  birds'  song 26 

Blue  lies  the  light  upon  the  hills 89 

Borne  on  the  warm  wind  of  the  western  gale        .        .  30 

Come  away!  come  away 35 

Couched  in  cool  shadow,  girt  by  billowy  swells    .        .  95 

Could  aught  arrest  the  rushing  wings  of  Time          .         .  91 

Creep  slowly  up  the  willow  wand .....  23 

"Cuckoo!  cuckoo!"  it  haunts  my  way     ....  3 

Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way        .  51 


146  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

Doves  softly  cooing  murmurs  musical  .        .        .        .  143 

Each  day  of  thine,  sweet  month  of  May  .        .        .       \  122 

First  night  of  May !  and  the  soft-silvered  moon  .        .  5 

Fled  are  the  frosts  and  now  the  fields  appear   ...  60 

'Fore  long  the  trees  begin  to  show  belief      .        .        .  1 1 1 

From  eastern  summits,  pine-possessed      .        ...        .  1 39 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame,  the  blooming  morn       .        .  5 

Hark  I     The  sea-faring  wild-fowl  loud  proclaim        .        .  38 

Have  you  seen  an  apple  orchard  in  the  spring      .        .  70 

Hebe's  here,  May  is  here in 

Here  I  come,  creeping,  creeping  everywhere        .        .  14 

Here's  a  bank  with  rich  cowslips  and  cuckoo-buds  strewn,  15 

Hither  rolls  the  storm  of  heat 57 

How  softly  comes  the  breath  of  bloom     ....  45 

I  feel  a  newer  life  in  every  gale 99 

If  you  catch  a  breath  of  sweetness 19 

I  hear  you  in  the  orchard  hid  in  clouds  of  apple  flower,  1 19 

I  met  a  little  maid  one  day 114 

In  May,  when  sea  winds  pierced  our  solitudes      .        .  76 

In  the  aisles  of  the  orchard  fair  blossoms  are  drifting     .  58 

I  saw  a  child,  once,  that  had  lost  its  way      ...  24 

I  saw  a  snowflake  in  the  air 78 

I  saw  the  Virgin-mother  clad  in  green  .        .        .        .  134 
I  saw  this  morning  with  a  sudden  smart   .        .        .        -136 

In  the  merry  month  of  May 29 

Is  not  the  Maytime  now  on  earth 2 

I  strayed  one  golden  noon  in  May         .        .        .        .  iu6 
It  is  good  to  be  young  in  the  spring,  but  to  breathe,  but 

to  be 42 

It's  O  my  heart,  my  heart 65 

It  was  in  the  prime 107 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

I  walked,  in  the  "  sweet  season's  "  opening       ...  8 

I  wish  that  when  you  died  last  May      ....  140 

Like  souls  that  balance  joy  and  pain  i 

Lo !  where  the  rosy-bosomed  Hours     ....  130 

Long  has  been  the  winter  .        .        .        .        .        .         .  133 

Long  lights  gleam  o'er  the  western  wold      .        .        .  124 

Look  how  in  May  the  rose 44 

March  and  April  go  your  way 41 

May  has  come  in,  —  young  May,  the  beautiful  ...  2 

May  is  a  pious  fraud  of  the  almanac     ....  56 

May,  queen  of  blossoms    .......  So 

May,  thou  month  of  rosy  beauty 97 

My  heart  is  light  with  May,  with  May       ....  101 

New  flowery  scents  strewed  everywhere        .        .        .  103 

Not  as  where  swoons  the  tranced  lark      ....  49 

Not  the  word,  but  the  soul  of  the  thing        ...  32 
Now  are  the  moments,  brief  and  rare        .        .        .        .122 

Now  dandelions  in  the  short,  new  grass        ...  96 

Now  that  the  green  hillside  has  quite        ....  79 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger      .        .  13 

Now  the  mavis  and  the  merle 59 

Now,  while  the  long-delaying  ash  assumes    ...  69 

O  certainly,  no  month  this  is  but  May      ....  68 
Of  sunlight  and  green  shade,  and  songs  of  birds,  a  happy 

blending 90 

Oft  in  the  merry  season  and  the  morning  of  the  May  .  1 28 

Oh,  mild  May  day,  in  Fodla's  clime 4 

Oh,  sing !  the  swallows  are  in  tune        ....  22 

O  lady  mine  with  the  sunlit  hair nS 

O  Love,  this  night  when  the  sweet  nightingale     .         .  82 
On  May  morn  two  lovers  stood          .         .        .        .         .127 

On  bookes  for  to  read  I  me  delight       ....  28 


148  INDEX  OP  FIRST  LINES. 

PACK 

One  knows  the  spring  is  coming   .        .        .                 .  105 

O  shout,  for  the  morning 18 

O  show  me  a  season  as  mild  and  as  merry   .        .        .  123 

Our  old  colonial  town  is  new  with  May     ....  62 

Out  from  cities  haste  away 8 

Over  the  hilltop  and  down  in  the  meadow-grass       .        .  79 

Pentecost  had  kindled  all  the  trees       .        .        .        .  138 

Rose-red  lilies  that  bloom  on  the  banner  ....  84 

See  !  the  cautious  oak  at  last 64 

Sing  me  a  song  of  idle  days xxviii 

Spring,  the  sweet  spring,  is  the  year's  pleasant  king    .  46 

Storm-tossed,  gnarled  bough 78 

Sweet  laggard,  come !  and  list  the  drowsy  chime  .         .  47 

Sweet  month  of  Mary,  month  of  May  61 

Thanks  !  for  I  understand  you,  happy  Night        .        .  39 
That  was  a  curlew  calling  overhead  .        .        .        .        .72 

The  amorous  birds  now  pair  in  every  brake          .        .  88 

The  apple  trees  with  bloom  are  all  aglow          ...  63 

The  breath  of  springtime  at  this  twilight  hour    .        .  37 
The  day  was  grey  and  dark  and  chill         .        .        .        .12 

The  earth  can,  like  the  soul,  but  once  be  wed       .        .  17 

The  earth  is  waking  at  the  voice  of  May  ....  139 

The  garlands  fade  that  spring  so  lately  wove  .      .        .  135 

The  grass  is  wet  with  shining  dews 86 

The  green  things  growing,  the  green  things  growing    .  25 

The  lark  is  singing  in  the  blinding  sky      ....  68 

Then  came  fair  May,  the  fairest  maid  on  ground.        .  67 

The  nightingale,  full-toned  in  middle  May        ...  98 

The  rose  that  in  the  springtide  ventures  forth       .        .  118 

There  stands  a  tree  in  the  orchard 96 

The  snow  had  not  yet  faded  from  the  crest  .        .        .  108 

The  soft  wind  whispered  secrets  to  the  apple  tree   .        .  99 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  149 

PAGB 

The  soote  season  that  bud  and  bloom  forth  brings       .  53 

The  spring,  made  dreary  by  incessant  rain        ...  74 

The  spring  was  very  glad  upon  the  hills       ...  33 

The  sweetest  sound  our  whole  year  round         ...  20 

The  voice  of  one  who  goes  before  to  make  ...  58 

This  flower  has  lived  and  breathed  and  moved         .        .  16 
Thou  pulse  of  joy !  whose  throb  beats  time          .       Title-page 

'Tis  merry  in  greenwood,  —  thus  runs  the  old  lay     .         .  102 
'Tis  the  quiet  eve  of  a  northern  spring :  the  village  sleeeps 

in  the  sun 8 1 

'Twas  May  !  the  spring  with  magic  bloom    .        .         .  113 

'Twas  prime  of  May ;  and  every  square  became       .        .  90 

Under  the  apple  boughs  as  I  sit    .                 .        .        .  117 

Up,  up  !  for  the  earth  is  a-Maying 1 16 

Warm,  wild,  rainy  wind,  blowing  fitfully       .        .         .  55 

What  can  better  please 117 

When  beeches  brighten  early  May         .        .        .        .  n 

When  first  the  spring  grasses 92 

When  in  a  May  day  hush 95 

When  Nature  tries  her  faintest  touch        ....  91 

When  the  May  moon  wanes  how  fresh  is  the  day         .  142 

Where  shall  we  keep  the  holiday 10 

While  I  linger  in  her  room 103 

White-flowered  orchards  where  young  buds  unfold  .         .  24 

Who  cares  on  the  land  to  stay 69 

Why  should  May  remember 54 

Why,  ye  glories  of  to-day      ......  I41 

Within  a  spot  where  slept  the  silent  dead         ...  38 

Within  the  woods  the  sweet  arbutus  trails    .        .        .  129 

With  the  flying  scud,  with  the  birds  on  the  wing      .        .  109 

Would  that  thou  couldst  last  for  aye    ....  48 

Yes,  it  is  May  !  though  not  that  the  young  leaf  pushes  its 

velvet 39 


INDEX  OF  SUBJECTS. 


PAGE 

A  Late  Spring 74 

A  May  Memory 18 

A  Morn  of  May 30 

A  May  Song  .........  35,  100 

An  Orchard  Fancy 96 

Apple  Blossoms 63,  70,  77,  78,  99 

A  Quiet  Eve  in  Spring 81 

As  it  Fell  upon  a  Day 73 

A  Snowflake  in  May 78 

A  Song  of  May 101 

A  Song  of  Spring 109 

A  Spring  Love  Song 139 

A  Spring  Picture 138 

A  Spring  Song 133 

A  Springtime 105 

At  the  Close  of  Spring 135 

At  Whitsuntide 138 

Ballade  of  the  Maytime 118 

Beltane 4 

Beside  the  Sea .        .  106 

Como  in  May 108 

Corinna's  Going  A-Maying 5 

Cuckoo !   Cuckoo 3 

Dandelions 96 

Dark  Spring 59 


152  INDEX  OF  SUBJECTS. 

PACK 
Expectation 24 

First  Night  of  May 5 

Fled  are  the  Frosts     ........       60 

Fantasie  de  Printemps 58 

Farewell  to  Spring      .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .136 

Heat 57 

Idle  Days xxviii 

In  a  May  Day  Hush 95 

In  Blossom  Time        ....        k        ...      65 

In  Joyous  Spring I 

In  May        ...          22,  64,  69,  72,  79,  no.  112,  139,  141 

In  Middle  May 98 

In  Maytime 117 

In  Spring 88 

In  the  Spring 42 

In  the  Prime  of  Spring 107 

In  Waning  May 143 

Is  not  the  Maytime  now  on  Earth         ....  2 

Late  Spring  Evening 134 

Look  how  in  May  ...*....  44 

May     .      17,  24,  32,  38,  44,  45,  48,  56,  58,  61,  67,  69,  79,  82,  90, 

99.  I03>  Iir 

May  and  Death 140 

May  Day 8 

May  Day  Song 8 

May  Evening 37 

Mayflowers 19 

May  Gladness 68 

May  Grown  A-Cold 68 

May  has  Come  In 2 

May  in  Kingston 62 


INDEX  OF  SUBJECTS.  153 

PACK 

May  in  the  Swan  Woods 49 

May  Memories 33 

May  Morning      .........55 

May  Morning,  Song  on  .......  13 

May  Morn  Song 86 

Maytide in 

Maytime 39,  1 32 

Moonlight  in  May 39 

Moonrise  in  May 124 

On  a  Country  Road        .......  66 

One  Swallow 12 

On  May 27 

On  the  Spring 130 

On  the  Downs 116 

On  the  Thames 18 

Phillida  and  Corydon 29 

Pictures  of  Spring 83 

Prophetic  Birds      . _.         127 

Rondeau 142 

Re-awakening         ........          38 

Seeking  the  Mayflower       .......      20 

Song  of  the  Princess  May 41 

Song  of  the  Spring     .         . 89 

Song  to  May 80 

Spring 26,  46,  53 

Spring  in  Tuscany 84 

Spring  Song 23,  103 

Sweet  Laggard,  Come 47 

Sylvan  Musings 95 

The  Arbutus 16 

The  Birds  in  May 128 


154  INDEX    OF  SUBJECTS, 

PACK 

The  Canadian  Spring 113 

The  Daisy 28 

The  Entering  May 10 

The  Fields  in  May 117 

The  First  Rose 118 

The  Flower  of  Love  lies  Bleeding 114 

The  Green  Things  Growing 25 

The  May  of  the  Year 123 

The  Maytime  Rapture 122 

The  Pulse  of  May Title-page 

The  Queen  of  the  May 15 

The  Return  of  the  Nightingale 30 

The  Rhodora 76 

The  Voice  of  the  Grass 14 

The  Woodwele  in  May 119 

The  Woods  in  May 102 

To  May 97 

To  the  Dandelion 51 

To  the  Month  of  May 122 

Twas  Prime  of  May 90 

Vita  Vitalis 92 

Waiting  for  June 129 

When  Beeches  brighten  Early  May       .        .        .        .  1 1 

When  May  Follows 48 

When  Nature  tries  her  Finest  Touch    ....  91 

Windermere  in  Mid-May 91 

Why  should  May  Remember 54 


